Page 6 of Unleashed

He released the canoe into place alongside all the others, then turned and strode toward the food truck. He faced my direction and I pulled my gaze from the monitor to watch the man himself. Just as he turned to cut between two of the food trucks, I caught a hitch in his gait. I sat up straight.

The man was known for his skilled skating. His hockey IQ. And known for playing through injury with the stoicism of a machine.

He’d fought his way through the Stanley Cup finals several years ago, playing with cracked ribs and a separated shoulder. He’d refused to talk about it, of course, shutting me down quickly when I’d tried to bring up that series last week. He’d clawed his way into the finals, only to go home empty-handed in a bitter game seven loss.

But a limp? My long-dormant storyteller’s instinct perked up, shaking off the dust of cynicism and disappointment I’d gathered during my exile from show business. This wasn’t just footage for a highlight reel anymore. This was something real, something raw, something that demanded exploration. But convincinghimto let me tell it? That posed a challenge.

I pulled Bright into my lap, smoothed my hand through his fluffy white fur.

The push and pull between me and Vignier, the undercurrent of tension that had crackled between us all season, was about to come to a head.

I never could resist a challenge.

Chapter Three

Lily

Hockey Rule #7: Pain is temporary, pride is forever

Media Rule #7: Suffering sells, vulnerability gets views

Scramblingbackfromthetable, I called for one of my crew members to keep an eye on Bright. Not that my lazy cat would leave the comfort of his mat and water bowl. Assured of his well-being, I took off in the direction where Viggy’d disappeared.

I caught Adam’s eye as I wove through the crowd and flashed him a grin. He stood beside the woman wearing the cut-off jersey. He winked back at me, his goofy, contagious grin of a stark contrast to the stoic mask Viggy wore.

Vendors had set up folding table where people picked at burgers, but the real crowd had gathered at the pupsicle truck. Frozen treats and bacon bites for dogs drew a line twice as long as anything offering food for their owners.

I stepped between two trucks to find a row of saplings. The trees acted as a sort of demarcation between the vehicle accessible area and the tire-free grass. Viggy leaned against the back of one of the trucks, head down, shoulders sagging.

Something about his posture tugged at my heart. I took a deep breath and closed the distance between us. A twig snapped under my sandal and his head shot up, his gaze arrowing in on me, eyes tightening.

“Viggy,” I said, pushing the tremor out of my voice. “I just had an idea for the show. How would you feel about doing a special episode? On just you. Your final year. We could time it ahead of the playoffs—”

“Forget it.” He shoved away from the truck, squared up his shoulders, arms crossed over the broad width of his chest. His body language screamed “Get lost!”

I didn’t. I stepped closer.

He’d fought me every step of the way. From day one, he’d treated our crew like invaders in his carefully controlled kingdom. The Aces organization had fed me a line about their star captain—how he’d smooth things over, help integrate us with the team. “Viggy sets the tone,” they’d insisted. “The players follow his lead.”

And I’d done my homework. Compiled the stats. Mapped his influence. In every anonymous league survey, players ranked him at the top, and had for years now—most respected captain, strongest leader, best mentor. The numbers painted a clear picture of Jack Vignier’s impact on the game.

What those statistics failed to capture? His absolute genius at blocking anything—or anyone—he viewed as a threat to his team’s focus.

And today? That would beUnleashed. My crew. Me.

Injury reports drove our shooting schedule, shaped our story arcs. They figured heavily in our filming schedule. People loved to get the inside scoop. To glimpse beyond the jerseys, beyond the standard issue network broadcast. And injuries made the players real, humanized them. Fan favorites competing with a broken hand or a damaged ankle fed into the whole hockey players are the toughest athletes aura.

But an injury for the renowned captain? Heading into a serious playoff run? Heading into his last chance at the one achievement that trumped all others—the Stanley Cup?

Hello, headlines! Viral for days, weeks. Ratings even Mark Malone couldn’t ignore.

I searched Viggy’s face, wishing I could find a crack, knowing I wouldn’t. “Let me tell your story, Viggy. We can show people the real you, the man behind the jersey. I’m not trying to exploit you, I swear. People want tounderstandyou. You’re already an icon in the league—”

He smirked, an unspoken challenge, and hackles spiked along the back of my neck. I’d had months of him avoiding one-on-one interviews and putting his back to the cameras. “I’m not asking for permission, Viggy. The organization already gave me a free pass. I’m just offering you a say in the narrative.”

His snort was short, sharp and laced with derision. Like a slap in the face. “A say?” His voice came at me in a low rumble, tapping against my nerve endings like a live wire. “You still think we’re going to follow some bullshit Hollywood script? That you can pull strings and we’ll all jump? You think I get to choose my ending? This is real life, Sutton. And in real life, the only narrative that matters is the one we write on the ice.”

He shifted away from the truck, his shoulder brushing mine, electricity arcing between us. I should have stepped back, created some distance. But my feet had grown roots.

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