Page 7 of Unleashed

Damn him. Damn me for letting him have this kind of affect on me, even after months of exposure.

The scent of cypress and sweat mingled, creating an unrelenting male assault on my senses. I mapped the line of his neck, the taut tendons disappearing beneath the damp cotton of his shirt. His skin glistened. My mouth went dry.Get a grip, girl.This wasn’t a moment to show weakness; this was a battle of wills. And I wouldn’t let him win.

I tilted my chin up and met his gaze full on. “You thinkUnleashedis nonsense? We show the players as they are, Viggy. Your episode would be no different. We’d show the real you.”

His eyes narrowed. “You think you know anything about therealme?” His low voice scraped against my defenses, dark and dangerous. “You’ve been here for what, seven-eight months? Like a damn vulture, waiting for my guys to crack. To catch it on film, earn you the ratings you’re so desperate for. Filming our practices, our games—” He waved his hand back toward the deck, the event. “—this PR bullshit. You think this gives you some sort of privileged insight? That you somehow understand the blood, sweat, and tears that go into my life? Don’t flatter yourself, Sutton.”

His glacial blue eyes locked onto mine, pinning me in place. Hell, they could freeze a puck mid-flight. I wanted to look away, to break the intensity of his stare, but I couldn’t. A bead of perspiration trailed along the small of my back. His gaze stripped away my mask, exposed the lingering insecurities, and dared me to lose my cool.

I rolled my lips and conjured up an image of Mark Malone. Of the media maelstrom when my career imploded on the lies told by my enemies. Thought of the sweet California bungalow I’d given up and everything else I’d lost three years ago. If going toe-to-toe with Jack Vignier got me one step closer to where I belonged, I was down for the fight.

“I know more than you think.” I tilted my chin up. “How’s the knee, Viggy?”

I took a gamble, tossing out my guess like a challenge. But the gamble paid off as his eyes darkened, his jaw tightened, and a vein popped at his temple. I’d hit a nerve.

He took a step closer, the heat of his body radiating against mine, my senses buzzing as he invaded my space. His breath feathered against my cheek. My skin tingled.

For a wild heartbeat, the crazy impulse to reach out my hand, to lay my fingers along the hard cut of his jaw, swamped me.

My fingers itched with the need to touch him, to trace the sharp blade of his jaw. The urge blindsided me—this desperate want to smooth away the tension etched around his mouth, to discover if his stubble would rasp against my palm as roughly as it looked. My hand lifted of its own accord, and for one electric moment I let myself imagine how his breath would catch if I gave in. How those ice-blue eyes might darken, might melt, if I dared to close the space between us.

The sound of a child’s laughter in the distance broke the spell and I clenched my fingers into a fist. My gaze snagged on a pale, crescent-shaped scar that marred the edge of his jaw, disappearing into the shadow of his dark stubble.

“You think you saw pain today? You saw nothing. You know nothing.” His tone reminded me that he was a god in a game that lauded brutality.

For a moment, I glimpsed the man behind the mask—vulnerable, hurt, but unrelentingly determined. As quickly as it appeared, the glimpse vanished and he turned away.

He strode around the corner of the food truck, those magnificent shoulders of his disappearing from view, but the electricity of his presence lingered on my skin like a brand. My fingers clamped around my wrist, my thumb digging into the frantic pulse hammering beneath the skin.

The sun beat down, but the heat that coiled low in my belly had nothing to do with the hot Texas weather. Damn him and that limp. Damn Jack Vignier and his mysteries. Just when I thought I had the man figured out, he threw me that tantalizing hint of vulnerability.

I lifted my face to the sun, matching its glare with one of my own.

Let him think his walls could keep me out. I hadn’t clawed my way back from career destruction by backing down from a challenge. Jack Vignier might excel at keeping people at arm’s length, but I specialized in breaching defenses. And that limp? That was my way in.

Chapter Four

Viggy

Hockey Rule #12: Leadership isn’t about wearing the “C”, it’s about earning it

Media Rule #12: Authority comes from follower count

Themetallictangoffreshly resurfaced ice hit me the second I shoved through the double doors of the Aces Performance Center. The sharp, cold scent usually lit me up inside. A signal to push harder, skate faster. Today, it coated my tongue with the taste of something foul, bitter.

Tick. Tick. Tick.The countdown echoed in my mind, steady, inescapable. Every beat a reminder of time slipping away. Every step onto the ice a dare testing the limits of how long my body could hold out.

Washed-up players followed the same tired playbook—open a sports bar, grab a commentary gig, whatever. As if breaking down plays for a live audience could ever replace the raw, electric pull of the game itself. My agent labeled them “good opportunities.” But I needed this—one last season, one last chance to prove I wasn’t done. Not yet.

I’d defined my existence with hockey. Without it, who the fuck was I?

The thought churned in my gut as I stepped inside. The racket of the training center slammed into me like a physical blow. The clanging of weights, shouts of encouragement, skates carving ice. Each sound scraped against my last nerve, setting my teeth on edge. Left, right, left. One foot in front of the other.

“Viggy! Hold up a second.”

Jabari Flint’s voice sliced through the noise of the locker room, pulling me up short. The trainer jogged over, his usual megawatt smile lighting up his face. My stomach twisted. After a decade of treating my every twinge and tear, the guy could probably diagnose an injury with a glance from across the room.

The locker room never seemed so far away.

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