Page 10

Chapter Ten

Viggy

Hockey Rule #28: Success is measured in Cup rings Media Rule #28: Success is measured in viral moments

I could no more deny her demand than hold back a freight train. A growl tore from my throat, primal and raw. I curled my hand along the side of her neck and pressed my thumb to the curve of her jaw. One swift move and I had her away from the wall, my hand at her back crushing her chest to mine as I claimed her mouth.

No more fighting this. No more pretending she didn’t light up every damn nerve ending in my body.

The taste of her ripped through me like a shot of pure adrenaline—sweet and intoxicating with a hint of spice. That spice gave away the real Lily hiding behind Ms. Hollywood’s perfect facade. I deepened the kiss, craving more.

My hand settled on the flare of her hip, holding her close. Seventeen years of discipline meant jackshit with Lily Sutton in my arms. My dick had its own agenda where she was concerned, had since the first time she’d nailed me with her brilliant eyes and sharp tongue eight months ago.

I slanted my mouth over hers, my tongue gliding across her lips until she opened for me. When I sucked that plump lower lip between my teeth, she shivered. The involuntary reaction shot straight to my groin.

Mine .

The possessive thought blindsided me.

Too fucking long I’d denied wanting her with every pulse in my veins. Pretended I didn’t get hard every time she prowled the facility with that determined stride and her damn four-inch heels on already long, long legs.

I hauled her up until her feet left the ground, palming her sweet ass as she wrapped those legs around my waist. Her fingers tunneled into my hair, her grip just the good side of stinging. Perfection. She returned my kiss lick for lick. Took everything I gave and demanded more.

The need to consume her blazed through my blood. I wanted to own every inch of skin, memorize every gasped breath, learn every secret she kept behind her take-no-bullshit persona. The intensity of that want staggered me.

I broke the kiss, dragging in air that still tasted like her. My hand gentled in her hair as I traced the delicate line of her throat. So soft. So damn vulnerable.

When her eyes met mine, the naked trust in them sucker punched me. Her pupils were blown wide, a thin ring of pretty blue around the dark center. But beneath the desire I saw something else—something that mirrored the unfamiliar ache in my chest.

The caveman part of my brain screamed to take, to claim, to make her mine in the most primitive way possible. She’d let me too. The realization sent another rush of heat south.

But tomorrow...fuck. Since when did I think about tomorrow with a woman? Quick release with someone who knew the score—that had been my standard operating procedure for years. Uncomplicated. No distractions from my game.

So why did the thought of Lily being uncomplicated make me want to put my fist through the wall?

I skimmed my thumb over her lips, swollen from my kiss. The tip of her tongue darted out to flick against my thumb, and a half-smile kicked up the corner of her mouth.

Every facet Lily Sutton revealed—from impeccable professional to vulnerable woman to tonight’s seductive siren—fanned the fire inside me. I’d known it would happen. Lily Sutton was worth the effort. Her package alone—the image she presented day in and day out for Unleashed , a woman who could command any room—already tempted me. And I wanted more than a quick fuck. I wanted tomorrow with her. Fuck, I wanted her .

These last few days? Getting a glimpse inside her head? Forget it. I was done pretending.

“You have plans after practice tomorrow?”

She blinked up at me, confusion warring with curiosity in those incredible eyes. “You have something in mind?” Her voice feathered against my skin, light and sweet.

“I’ll pick you up after work.” I cupped her cheek, slid my thumb over the smooth skin of her jaw, then down to the curve of her neck. “Dress comfortably.”

She smiled and my heart kicked into a gallop. Satisfaction rolled through me as a sparkle lit her eyes. We’d turned a corner. No more fighting this thing between us.

I dipped down for one last taste, quick before I lost control again. Pulled back before I could give in to the urge to carry her straight to bed.

Tomorrow. We had tomorrow.

Coach blew a whistle and I skated toward the bench with the rest of the Aces. I extended my knee as I moved, testing which position hurt less than another, my breath catching in my throat as the pain flared and ebbed with the motion. Some days were worse than others. Today I’d put it at a seven on a scale of one to ten, which meant if I wasn’t careful, I was that much closer to being exposed.

“Moving slow, old man,” O’Leary called, his voice a sharp crack across the ice. The younger center glided ahead of me, holding the door open as I trailed behind him. “Let me get this for you. Age before beauty!”

“Yeah, yeah.” I shot him a grin that hid the truth, stomping down the tunnel to the locker room.

O’Leary’s joke stabbed deeper than he knew. He might toss around “old man” with a smirk, but when game time hit, he’d expect Captain Jack Vignier at full throttle. With my knee feeling like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, what kind of performance could I actually deliver? My eyes swept the locker room, landing on familiar faces mixed with fresh meat. A couple hungry AHL call-ups skated with us this week, hovering like vultures. Ready to swoop in at the first sign of weakness. Silver sat in his usual spot, already carrying himself like a captain. He’d wear my C next year, lead my boys into battle season after season while I... what? What did I want to do?

The team would roll on without me. Hockey always did.

But this was my last chance.

The thought hammered inside my skull like a migraine, coloring everything. Every practice. Every game. Every goddamn moment. This was it. My final shot. And I’d crawl over broken glass before I’d hang up my skates without ever hoisting the Cup.

More players filtered in from the practice ice and weight room, filling our sanctuary with the chaos of male voices, equipment clattering, and music blasting. The wall of sound nearly drowned out Coach Mack when he approached.

“You alright, Vig?” His voice dropped low and rough, like he hated asking the question as much as I hated hearing it. He’d spent the year reconstructing our playbook, honing our strategy, pushing us toward playoffs with everything he had. His eyes locked on mine, the unspoken question hanging between us as heavy as a penalty: Could he trust me to deliver when it mattered?

“Just a little tight.” I avoided his eyes, yanking off my pads, my fingers digging into the worn leather.

“You’re going to have to loosen up.” Coach’s voice dropped low, his focus sharp enough to flay skin. My stomach churned. “We need you firing on all cylinders.”

“All good, Coach.” I pushed my lips into what passed for a smile these days. Captain Jack Vignier at your service, steady as a rock.

But Mack hadn’t survived twenty years behind NHL benches by missing what players tried to hide. His eyes caught every wince, every subtle shift of weight off my bad side. For now, he swallowed whatever doubts chewed at him. Trusted me to do right by the team.

And fuck if that didn’t twist the knife deeper.

Doing right by the team. The mantra I’d lived by since they first stitched the C onto my jersey. Not what Jack Vignier wanted, but what the Aces needed. For seventeen seasons, that choice shone clear as center ice after a fresh Zamboni run. Whatever served the team best, I did without hesitation.

I’d built my entire career on putting the Aces before myself, before every other consideration.

The question gnawed my insides raw. Stay on the ice and risk becoming a liability, or take the bench like some washed-up has-been? Watch from the press box while my boys battled on without me? The C would still hang on my chest even if I sat it out, but the letter meant nothing if I couldn’t lead from the trenches. Playoff wars turned on split-second battles in the corners. The goals counted, sure, but so did the bone-crushing hits that fired up the bench. The plays that swung momentum couldn’t happen from the goddamn press box. Sensing that momentum, knowing when to fire up the guys and when to hold them back? I couldn’t do that off the ice.

Silver had solid hockey sense. Smart hands. Quick decision-making. But nobody had ever placed the weight of a team’s Stanley Cup drive on his shoulders and asked him to carry the hopes and dreams of more than twenty people through hell.

If I stepped aside, he’d get his chance in the spotlight. Might even hoist the Cup I’d chased for seventeen fucking years. Yeah, my name would still get engraved on the side, but the victory would ring hollow. Empty.

Silver’s triumph, not mine.

Not the legacy I’d sacrificed everything to build.

An hour later, I sank into one of the leather chairs at the front of the conference room, freshly showered and changed into jeans and a button-down. The podium stood empty, waiting, while the LED screen behind it glowed blue-white with our logo. My teammates shuffled in, their voices bouncing off the walls as the coaches filed through the side door.

Coach Mack stepped up to the podium. “Alright, fellas.” His voice boomed through the room, killing the lingering chatter. “You’ve played your last regular season game. Earned some breathing room while Chicago wraps up their schedule. Take these next couple days to recharge. Recover. Get your heads right for the real war ahead.”

He paused, pinning each of us with a stare that’d do a drill sergeant proud. The younger guys whooped and hollered while veterans nodded with tight jaws. My mind raced ahead, though, mapping out the minutes until I’d have to decide—play through pain or admit defeat.

“When you come back,” Mack continued, his voice dropping lower, but still sharper than a skate blade, “be ready for the fight of your lives. This series demands everything you’ve got and then some. Full focus. Total dedication. The same determination that put us on top through eighty-two games this season.”

Behind him, our Aces logo glowed from the screen, blue and gold, proud and fierce. My blood heated, my pulse quickening with the same fire I’d felt since the first time I pulled that jersey over my head seventeen years ago. I’d bled for that crest. Built my life around it. No fucking way I’d go down without emptying everything I had left in the tank.

My knee might scream with every stride. Doubt might claw at my gut with each hit I took. But I wasn’t done.

Not by a long shot.

Coach’s face softened, the tactical mastermind melting into something more approachable—your favorite uncle ready to slip you a twenty when your parents weren’t looking. “You guys crushed it this year. Couldn’t be prouder.” He shook his head with a grin. “Though I could definitely do without Fred the Iguana colonizing my office.”

Laughter rippled across the room. Fred had appeared mysteriously after our last road trip, a three-legged rescue iguana who now ruled Coach’s private space like he owned the deed.

“But the hockey?” Coach’s voice dropped, reverent. “Best I’ve seen in twenty years behind the bench.”

He stepped around the podium, his eyes sweeping across our faces before locking onto mine. My spine straightened automatically.

“Now comes the real test. Everything we’ve worked for. What we’ve dedicated our lives to. A shot at history.” His voice rose with each word. “At getting our names on Lord Stanley’s Cup—the greatest fucking trophy in sports!”

The room exploded. Feet pounded the floor. Voices roared. My heart hammered against my ribs as blood rushed through my veins, hot and electric. This wasn’t just in our blood—hockey was our blood. These men understood the sacrifice, the obsession, the brotherhood. Every single one of them.

Coach lifted his hand, and silence dropped over us like a blanket. He’d only played four seasons on the blue line before his knee gave out, but he’d found his true calling developing talent. Teaching. Leading. The game never released its hold once it grabbed you.

“For some of you...” His voice quieted, heavy with meaning that pressed into my chest. “For some of us , this is it. When you think you’re empty, when you’ve got nothing left to give, remember your teammates. Remember your captain .” His eyes burned into mine. “Find that last ounce of fight. We’re taking this series. We’re bringing home the Cup. This is our goddamn year!”

The roar of sound hit like a physical wave. Before I realized it, my name echoed through the room.

“VIG-NIER! VIG-NIER!”

My jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. I pushed to my feet, raised my hand to acknowledge my boys—my family, these men who’d bled alongside me for years.

“Our fucking year!” I shouted over their chant, trying to redirect their energy, but they wouldn’t stop shouting my name.

I dropped back into my chair, shooting Mack a death glare that would have wilted anyone else. The bastard just grinned and ducked behind his podium as if that scrap of wood could protect him from retribution.

“Alright, settle down!” He shouted over the chaos. “No pressure, Viggy, but we’re doing this for you. Not letting you down. Right, boys?”

Another roar crashed through the room. Mack raised his hands, palms out, gradually bringing them back to Earth.

“Take your days off. Come back ready for war. I believe in every one of you.” The humor drained from his face as his eyes found mine again. “I believe in you, Jack. This is your year.”

His words settled on my shoulders, heavier than any jersey I’d ever worn. I wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him with everything I had.

But the fire burning through my knee told a different story.

I believe in you, Jack . Coach’s words echoed in my ears as I drove to Sutton’s apartment later that day. They lingered as she buzzed me into the lobby and I rode the elevator up to her floor. They whispered as I knocked on her door.

But then she swung the apartment door wide, and the sight of her yanked Mack’s voice out of my head faster than losing an edge on a breakaway—sudden, disorienting, impossible to look away from. She wore some flimsy white number that left her belly bare and dipped low between her tits. Her hair, usually up and away from her face, cascaded in shiny brown waves down past her shoulders. Every thought, every weight piled on my shoulders, melted away.

I’d wasted months avoiding this woman. Resenting her and the job the Aces organization hired her to do. Resenting the added burden and more recently, resenting the threat she represented to my secrets.

I stepped forward, forcing her back into her apartment, lodged my hand along the side of her neck, and stole a kiss. Quick and hard, an almost instinctual response to her presence. Only years of discipline let me pull away just as quickly.

She rolled her lips together as though savoring my touch, and a slow heat curled through my chest, pulling me deeper under her spell. Her fingers slid from my shoulders, down my chest to fist in the fabric of my shirt at my waist. A tiny exhale escaped her soft lips and she darted her gaze up to meet mine.

“Well,” she said, her lips tipping into a tiny smile. “That’s one way to say hello.”

She didn’t wait for a response, but dropped her gaze and sidled past me into the corridor outside her apartment. “What’s on the agenda? Am I dressed appropriately?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘appropriately’.” I followed her into the hall, cupped my hand at her hip and guided us to the elevator. Not touching her wasn’t an option. The woman was lucky I hadn’t dragged her straight to the bedroom.

“Date appropriate?” She skipped ahead, twirling around to face me and skip backwards. Her hair bounced around her shoulders, her tits wiggled beneath the little white scrap of nothing she wore and, best of all, her eyes shone with a mischievous glint. “I mean, this is a date, right? With the one and only Jack Vignier?”

The corner of my lips kicked up into an almost smile. I’d never seen this teasing, flirty side of Sutton. I wanted to grab her hand and hold on tight. “This is a date.”

As we moved into the elevator, I tugged her into my side.

“Good thing.” She smirked up at me. “I’d have wasted a lot of effort otherwise.”

Her words soaked into my skin, warmed me from the inside out. “Effort, eh?”

“I didn’t bring ‘date appropriate’ clothes with me to Austin. I had to raid Adele’s closet.”

We exited the lift and made our way out to my truck. I opened her door and waited for her climb inside, before dragging the seatbelt into place across her slender frame. The action brought my face a breath away from hers. I lingered, savoring the skip in her breathing, the way her eyes darted down to my lips before focusing on mine again. Whatever she saw put a flush of color in her cheeks.

“Good haul,” I said, my voice gruff.

She blinked, and I could practically see the moment my comment clicked. She grinned. “You like my top.”

I flicked the thin ribbon over her shoulder. “Like what’s under it even more.”

Her fingers covered mine on the seatbelt, pushing until the mechanism snapped. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Mr. Vignier. First dates don’t come with the kind of bonus you’re thinking about.”

I grunted a laugh and backed out of her space. My lips still held a grin as I rounded the vehicle to take my place behind the wheel. “How you feel about some Austin barbecue?”

“I know this looks like I’m wearing a bib, but I am not.”

“I bet they have one you can use at the restaurant.”

“I shouldn’t admit things like that, should I? That I’m a sloppy barbecue eater? Not sexy at all.”

“I’ll be the judge of what’s sexy or not.”