Page 9 of Unleashed

He bounced closer, his shaggy hair dripping onto his bare chest, a towel around his hips and a grin splitting his lips.

“She smiled at me, Cap.” If possible, his grin grew even wider. “She’s weakening, I can tell. Won’t be long now!”

The idiot had spent the better part of the season chasing after Sutton’s director, Adele. More than a decade between them, but Riley was undeterred. He chased after her like a puppy on a string. And she was about as responsive as a brick wall.

“A smile, huh?” I tugged my jersey over my head, tossing the sweat-soaked uniform toward the hamper. It landed short, but Riley ducked to pick up the crumpled jersey and get it where it belonged.

“What’s the deal with skinny jeans these days? Maybe that’s what she’s used to seeing out in California. Maybe I need to find a pair of skinny jeans.”

Silver snorted from across the room.

“No?” Riley dug into his gym bag, hauled out a pair of underwear. “What about a tattoo, then? Maybe she has a thing for tattoos. Maybe I should get one. Something big and badass like Rempel.”

I unlaced my skates, a grunt escaping my lips. “Kid, a tattoo is not gonna help you with that woman.”

Riley plopped down on the bench beside me, his expression as serious as I’d ever seen it. “Then what, Cap? I’ve tried everything.”

“Scrounge up another ten years and she might give you the time of day.”

Riley’s shoulders slumped and he grew silent. I scratched the back of my head. Maybe that’d been a little too much brutal truth. Before I could think of something else to say, my phone chirped.

My father’s name flashed across the screen. A familiar wave of—not quite dread, not exactly anger, but something close to both—washed over me.

I hesitated, but finally answered.

“Viggy, son!” My father’s voice boomed through the connection, a torrent of French spilling out, every word a reminder of where I came from and who I was supposed to be. “How’re things holding up? This is your year, son. I can feel it!”

The words hit me like a body check, knocking the air out of my lungs. “Yeah, Dad. Working hard.”

We spoke for several minutes. Mostly he spoke and I listened, replying when he seemed to require it. When he paused for a breath, I made up an excuse to hang up.

I shoved the phone in my bag, a pressure building in my chest, tight as a fucking vise. I could feel the weight of Riley’s gaze, and Silver’s from across the room. Two sets of eyes that felt like a million. But where my alternate captain knew when to let things ride, Riley bounced up into my space again, his frustration with getting Adele’s attention forgotten for the moment as he focused on me.

“You good, Cap?”

“Fine.” The word came out sharper than I’d meant, my patience shot to hell after Dad’s call. Between his expectations and this damn knee, I had enough weighing me down without the nuisances of Riley’s puppy-dog concern. “Worry about your own drama, Puppy. Like how you’re gonna keep from passing out when that tattoo needle hits your virgin skin.”

The jab landed exactly as intended—the color drained from Riley’s face. The sight almost made me forget about Dad’s voice in my head, all that talk about ‘my year’ and ‘feeling it’.Almost.

The kid had no business worrying about me when he couldn’t even handle the thought of a little ink without going green around the gills, but hell if I didn’t feel like a dick for taking out my father-induced frustration on him.

Riley stumbled back to his bench. “Right,” he said slowly. “Big tattoo means a lot of needles, I guess, huh?”

Doyle barked out a laugh from where he stood at the end of the locker room. “Gonna turn into a pussy, Riley? That’s right, you still have all your pretty-boy teeth.”

Riley mumbled something about needles being different than slap shots, then retreated back to his locker. Poor schmuck. I rubbed a hand over my face, tireder than I should be after an easy morning practice. If I had a shrink, they’d tell me it was mental exhaustion. Carrying the weight of expectation—my team’s, my city’s, my father’s—and that didn’t even touch on what I wanted for myself.

Or what I wanted after hockey.

Chapter Five

Lily

Hockey Rule #60: Protect your goalie

Media Rule #60: Protect your sources

Thegroupskillspracticewrapped up and the players dispersed to work one-on-one with the coaches or hitting the weight room. The whir of the Zamboni echoed through the empty training facility. The scent of freshly resurfaced ice threatened to overpower my perfectly blended dirty chai. I dragged in a deep whiff of spiced vanilla before swallowing down a warm mouthful. Summer, spring, winter or fall, a hot, dirty chai gave me the armor I needed to face the world.

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