Page 74 of Unleashed

“Lily.” He lifted his glass in mock salute. “Join us for a drink?”

“We’re about to start Game Seven against the Richland Renegades, probably the best team in the league. We lose tonight, we go home. I should be monitoring game footage.” I kept my voice steady despite the adrenaline dumping into my system. I turned my stare to Traver who shifted in the leather seat. “As should you.”

Traver shrank his long, lanky form into his chair. The presence of my lead cameraman set off warning bells in my mind. I cataloged micro-expressions, body language, the way he wouldn’t quite meet my eyes.

“There’s been a rather interesting development, though, Lily, my friend.” Malone’s voice carried that special edge that made my skin crawl. “Traver here tells me you and Adele have been... rewriting the narrative.” He set his glass down with deliberate care. “Something about a tribute episode? That’s what you’re leading with? After I trusted you to deliver real content?”

I inhaled a small breath. Released. And smiled. “The fans are responding to Jack’s determination. His dedication. His team defeated Chicago in the first round. The Aces came into this round against the Renegades as the underdogs, but they’ve forced a game seven. This is compelling television—”

“We’ve been over this.” His words sliced through mine. “The viewers want drama. Conflict. The failing captain’s last desperate grab at glory. That’s what sells. You saw the results. I can’t believe you’re still here, spouting this goody-two-shoes Hallmark bullshit.”

My brain shifted into overdrive, every scenario snapping into place like puzzle pieces I didn’t want to fit. Producer instincts mapped out possible outcomes, but my pulse was a runaway train, hammering against my ribs. Outside this room, the arena buzzed with Game Seven energy, a living, breathing thing. And somewhere below, Jack was lost in his pregame routine, oblivious to the battle unfolding in his name.

“The ratings—”

“The ratings need controversy.” Malone leaned forward, all pretense of casual conversation evaporating. “And you’re going to give it to them. Or you can kiss your career goodbye. Again.”

The threat hung between us, sharp as a blade.

I pried my fingers open, forcing my spine straight even as every instinct screamed to shrink back. “The fans are invested in this story. In Viggy. Destroying him now—”

“Let me make something clear.” The shift in his voice sent a cold spike through me, low and controlled, the kind that had me quietly tracking exits. “You exist in this industry because I allow it. Your precious redemption arc? That was me. Your chance to matter again? Me.” He leaned in, Manhattan abandoned, his presence pressing in like a threat. “So, when I tell you what the viewers want, what this show needs—”

“The show needs—”

“The show,” he cut in, “needs exactly what I say it needs. Or you can crawl back to whatever hole you were hiding in before I gave you this chance.”

My gaze flicked to Traver, seeing the resignation in his hunched shoulders. Another reminder that loyalty meant nothing in Malone’s world. But maybe that was the point—the real victory wasn’t in playing his game anymore.

I smoothed imaginary wrinkles from my skirt, buying time to steady my voice. “You’re right.” Professional. Controlled. “Drama sells. I’ll make the adjustments.”

His smile widened, predatory and pleased. “Good girl. I knew you’d see reason.”

The condescension in his tone would have cut deep once. Now it just reinforced that Adele and I were making the right choice.

I stood, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my pants. “If that’s all? I have a game to cover.”

“That’s all.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Looking forward to seeing what you deliver.”

Walking out felt like victory, even knowing the real fight was just beginning. My heels struck concrete again, each step carrying me further from Malone’s influence and closer to the story I actually wanted to tell.

The one about a captain who gave everything for his team. Who led by example and inspired loyalty not through fear, but through genuine connection. The real Jack Vignier, not the caricature Malone wanted to sell.

Let Malone make his threats. Some stories deserved to be told right.

The arena’s energy wrapped around me as I headed for the press box, carrying the promise of Game Seven glory or heartbreak. Above me, the championship banners rippled in the climate-controlled air. Below, fans streamed toward their seats while “Welcome to the Jungle” thundered through the speakers.

Another inhale. Another controlled release.

Time to document history, Malone’s demands be damned.

“Thattransition’sstillrough.”Adele’s voice carried the scratchy edge of too many hours staring at screens. She slouched lower in her chair, feet propped on our makeshift editing station. “Try dropping in that clip from January—the one where he’s teaching Riley the face-off technique.”

We sat alone in the tiny office allotted us by the Aces organization. Alone in the entirety of the Aces Performance Center for the first—and last—time.

I nibbled my bottom lip as I studied the same footage. Jack’s patient instruction. Riley’s eager nods. The quiet leadership that cameras captured but we’d ignored all season.

I dragged a different clip into position, muscle memory taking over despite my exhaustion. We’d been at this for hours, piecing together moments that showed the real Jack Vignier. The man behind the carefully constructed captain’s mask.

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