Page 2 of Unleashed

The damnAcesUnleashedcrew. All season long they’d been shadowing my team, hunting for their precious viral moments. A pack of vultures masquerading as content creators, ready to descend like vultures on any hint of drama they could milk for views.

Sure enough, there stood the head vulture, Ms. Hollywood herself. Lily Sutton. Effortlessly cool in a flowing shirt and jean shorts that—dammit to hell—looked fantastic on her. Just what I needed, to be attracted to the woman determined to make my last season as miserable as possible.

Lily Sutton, drop-dead gorgeous with her wavy dark brown hair, painted red lips, and blue-green eyes held a disconcerting sort of power. The whole NHL combined couldn’t match the threat she wielded with that camera crew of hers. They’d arrived at the start of the season, filming our every move for their “near-live” show. Every practice, every game, every damn moment dissected for the world to see.

I stepped past her on my way to where the team’s PR people had set up. And because this season had pegged me as the target in a punishing game of whack-a-mole, she fell into step beside me.

The breeze reeked of dirty lake water and cheap sunscreen. But damn if even the polluted wind failed to mask her scent. Citrus and something sharper, spicier. It hit me like a shot of whiskey, cutting through the surface crap to settle in my bones. The woman smelled too good. The kind of good that made my gut clench. That set my pulse to pounding. That triggered a primal urge to find the source, despite her presence being everything I didn’t need.

No dainty floral bullshit for Ms. Hollywood. Citrus and spice. Sharp, like her. Why the hell did she have to smell so damn interesting? And since when had I ever noticed the way a woman I wasn’t fucking smelled?

“We have cameras mounted to cover the dock, vendors, the pet station, picnic area, and crowd. Please stay in these locations. And the canoes and paddleboards are outfitted with remotes. The paddleboards were a little trickier to outfit, but my team tried to make the camera as unobtrusive as possible.”

“I’ll be in a canoe,” I growled, cutting her off. “Not that it matters. You vultures are about as subtle as a foghorn.” It had been a circus from the moment they’d invaded the Aces’ locker room—cameras in our faces, microphones picking up volatile tempers as well as private conversations. Intrusive. Distracting. Hell, it was a miracle we’d made it this far. Seventeen years, five Selkies, likely even a spot in the Hall of Fame—I’d poured my blood, sweat and tears onto the ice. But the Cup? I straightened my shoulders. This year, that big, shiny bastard was mine.

And Lily and her crew wouldn’t wreck my last shot.

This was it. My final season. The last time I’d wear the Aces jersey, feel the bite of the ice in fierce competition. I’d hoped to walk away quietly, on my own terms. Instead, management had turned my retirement into a spectacle, a chance to wring every last dollar out of my fading career.

Nothing like a little bonus pressure.

“The canoes have cameras at the front and on the benches in the middle. Still a little awkward, but you should be able to paddle fine and the footage should be great.”

“Well, as long as the footage is good.”

She snorted, catching the sarcasm without breaking stride and I risked a glance down. No power suit today. Just a thin white shirt stretched tight across her chest, the faint outline of lace beneath it impossible to ignore. Damn her. She’d traded tailored slacks for cutoffs—ripped denim clinging to her hips, frayed threads dangling along her lush thighs, and wreaking havoc on my blood pressure.

A feline growl interrupted my fixation on Lily Sutton’s legs. I dragged my gaze upward, my eyes skimming over the taut fabric of her shirt—damn those backpack straps—before settling on her face. “Are you hiding a cat?”

She twisted, revealing a backpack with a large clear bowl window in the middle. A fluffy white feline perched inside. He eyed me like I was a mouse and he was a breath away from demonstrating his predatory predilections. “He looks pissed.”

“That’s his permanent expression. He’s just complaining now because of the bounce.”

She wiggled in place, demonstrating. Her cat gave a protesting yowl. Her backpack shifted with her movements, her shirt tightening across her chest until the fabric gaped between the buttons, flashing me a glimpse of pretty white lace.

Focus, Vignier.I dragged my eyes back to her face, heat burning the back of my neck. “Right,” I said, “the bounce.”

“Be mindful of the cameras but act natural out in those canoes, okay?” If she noticed where my attention had gone, she didn’t show it. But her voice snapped back into that clipped, professional cadence I’d come to expect from her. The one that grated on my nerves and challenged me to push her just to see what she would do. “I think that footage is going to be the centerpiece of the next episode.”

I nodded like I cared and she finally cut away, swerving between picnic tables with the grace of a skilled skater. I pictured her on skates. Did she even know how? Or would she flounder like a fish out of water on the ice?

The damn woman oozed confidence and somehow the image of her floundering just wouldn’t form.

Her crew had set up a temporary base at the back of the picnic area. My gaze fixed on her until a motion dragged my attention from the gorgeous showrunner. Adele, the director of the bunch, waved. Heat tingled up the back of my neck at being caught ogling Lily’s ass.

I navigated my way through the swarm of people, eager faces and Aces gear everywhere I looked. The bright Austin sun beamed down. I should have worn a hat, let the brim hide the brittleness of my smile.

A blur of blue shot through the crowd toward me, dodging legs like a caffeinated pinball. I braked hard, to avoid a collision, but the jolt sent a searing pain up my bad leg. The world tilted, and I gripped the railing at the side of the path.Don’t fall. Don’t fucking fall.One stumble, and the gig would be up. Everyone would see how close I was to breaking.

An older girl clamped a hand onto the kid’s shoulder, twisting his shirt into her fist to yank him back. “Sorry, Mr. Vignier. My brother’s excited.” She held out an Aces cap and Sharpie, her eyes wide with her own hero-worship. “Could you sign this?”

I pushed out a smile and signed through gritted teeth. “You got it.”

“Are you getting a dog?” Her brother bounced on the balls of his feet. “They have a bunch of dogs over there. And cats and kittens and puppies and abird!”

“That right? Let’s hope they keep the bird on land. Can’t imagine it’d be much help with paddling a canoe, can you?”

The kids beamed up at me, their enthusiasm taking the edge off my discomfort. “You think they’ll assign me the bird? How’d I look with a bird on my shoulder, eh?”

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