Page 47 of Unleashed

I sure as hell couldn’t call whatever was growing between me and Jack “regular”.

Jack. His sleepy morning smile. The huskiness in his voice when he’d murmured “Stay,” dropped a kiss on my shoulder, and rolled me beneath him. “Just five more minutes.”

It was never five minutes. Jack Vignier wrecked my self-control. This morning, five minutes turned to thirty, but I’d have given my left little toe to have curled up against his big warrior’s body and never left his bed.

“Hey, Lily,” said Dave, jarring me back into the now. He worked for theChronicle, loved his Aces, and was one of the few who’d welcomed me right from the start of the season. Sports reporters were a territorial bunch, but he’d never made me feel unwelcome in their space. He knocked his coffee cup against mine. “Practice looking sharp, huh? Your boy Vignier really brought his A-game this morning.”

My stomach flipped. My boy. If he only knew. “Yeah,” I said. “He always does.”

The team’s energy crackled—high fives, shoulder bumps, grins lighting up faces as they left the ice. Meanwhile, my skin crawled every second I shared space with Malone, my choices crushing down on me like a deadline I couldn’t escape. He embodied every rotting inch of the film industry I abhorred, and yet I’d accepted his hand to drag myself back into the cesspool. Here I stood, poised to become Sydney 2.0, serving Viggy up for public consumption. The only difference? Sydney betrayed me for glory. I caved the moment Malone threatened my future, too afraid to lose everything again.

“Hey, check the screens,” someone called out. “PR’s running career highlights.”

The jumbotron lit up with highlights from Jack’s career. Seventeen years of triumph and determination set to rock ‘n roll. He’d refused any sort of ceremony, saying his last season didn’t end until he raised the Cup.

Leaning my shoulder into the wall beside me, I drummed a slow beat on my wrist. Not much longer and these same people—fans, reporters, players—would be watching very different footage.

“Gets you right here, doesn’t it?” Dave tapped his chest. “They don’t make ‘em like Vignier anymore. He’s gonna be missed.”

Malone’s laughter carried from across the span of benches where he schmoozed with facility staff, oblivious to the reverence of the moment.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hands fisted so tight my nails bit into my palms. I wished Mark Malone back to LA, for him to disappear in a puff of stinky designer smoke. Wished for a redo, for a way to rewind time and prevent the implosion of my career.

But then I wouldn’t be here.

Wouldn’t have found Jack.

He’s going to hate me.

Chapter Fifteen

Lily

Hockey Rule #42: The team comes first

Media Rule #42: The deadline comes first

Hecan’thatemeforever.

The thought knifed through me, sharp enough to steal my breath and leave a scar, soul deep.

The last few days flashed through my mind, a kaleidoscope of images and sensations—Jack’s quiet laughter in his kitchen as I burned yet another grilled cheese, the way he’d wrapped his arms around me from behind and rested his chin on my head, murmuring, “I got this, Hollywood” before rescuing our midnight snack. The kaleidoscope should have made me feel like I’d landed somewhere safe after months and months of feeling lost and confused. Instead, the memory twisted my insides.

He can’t hate me forever.

I snapped my eyes open. Deep breath in. Hold. Release. I tapped the spot on my wrist; the tightness in my chest eased.

Facts were facts. I’d made my choice the moment I handed over the notes, Viggy’s injury history—all public domain. Like that made me feel any better about my actions. The footage that painted Jack Vignier, Austin’s adopted son and hockey’s Iron Man, as one bad hit from total collapse.

Dave and the rest of the press shuffled toward the exit, badges swinging, phones already out, heading for the Media Center where they’d circle the players and ask the same five questions in slightly different tones. Jack would smile tight. Coach Mack would give the soundbite.

He can’t hate me forever.

The thought knifed through me. The episode. The one I’d built with my own hands, frame by frame. The one that twisted Jack’s trust into a highlight reel for other people’s consumption.

He had no idea what I’d done. That the story I’d sliced into bites easy enough for the world to chew.

And for what? A second shot at relevance? A maybe-promotion from a man who treated ethics like optional wardrobe?

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