Chapter Twelve

Viggy

Hockey Rule #33: Actions speak louder than words Media Rule #33: Spin the story until it shines

Sharp claws dug into my chest, followed by a disgruntled “ meeeow .” My eyes snapped open to find Bright’s smooshed face looming over mine, his expression ripe with feline judgment. Like I’d personally offended his entire species with my existence.

“The hell you want?” I muttered, still fuzzy with sleep.

The little bastard headbutted my chin, not buying my tough guy act for a second.

With a demanding yowl, his fluffy tail swished back and forth across my bare chest while he stared me down. My mind caught up with reality and facts ticked off like a checklist.

Bright the grumpy cat.

Lily’s apartment.

I’d stayed the night.

Again.

Austin’s nighttime skyline painted shadows on the dark walls of her bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, simple, bare. A slender bookcase and one movie poster, but mostly missing the details that would mark the territory as hers. As if she were merely passing the time, not building a home.

Bright butted against my chin again, kneading my chest like he was one step from making a serious batch of homemade biscuits. I ruffled his thick fur and contemplated leaving the warmth of the bed.

Then a crash from the kitchen brought me upright and I dumped my furry overlord to the mattress. My knee screamed bloody murder as I swung my legs over the edge. The trainers would have my ass if they knew I’d played through practice with it throbbing like this. But for once the constant ache felt distant, secondary to the warmth in my chest at knowing she was just one room away.

I snagged my boxers off the floor and yanked them on. Her apartment was tiny as hell—three long strides had me in the cramped hallway. Light spilled from the kitchen, along with the unmistakable scent of burning bread.

“Crap, crap, crap.” Lily’s whispered cursing carried crystal clear in the dead-of-night quiet. A pan clattered. “Why is this so hard?”

The sight of her froze me in the hallway, chest squeezing tight. She wore my henley from earlier, the navy fabric barely covering curves I’d spent hours learning with my hands and mouth. Her dark hair was a tangled mess—definitely my fault—and her brows were all scrunched up in that way that meant she was concentrating way too hard on something simple.

“Burning something, Hollywood?”

She whirled around, brandishing the spatula like a weapon, her sea-glass eyes wide. “You’re supposed to be asleep!”

“Hard to sleep through a five-alarm fire.” The smell of burnt toast had my nose twitching, but her in my shirt, all long legs and messy hair, knocked the teasing right out of me. I crossed to her in two strides, gripped her hips and lifted her onto the counter. The move felt as natural as breathing, like we’d been doing this dance for years instead of days. “Let me guess—midnight snack attempt number…?”

“Three.” Her teeth caught her full lower lip in a way that made my blood run hot. “I was hungry, and you looked so peaceful sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you. Not after you worked so hard tonight. You deserved your beauty rest.”

I snorted. “Beauty rest, huh?” I reached around her to kill the burner. Then couldn’t resist pressing my lips to that soft spot below her ear that made her shiver. “Move over. Grilled cheese happens to be my specialty.”

She scooted sideways on the counter, giving me room to work, but the tiny kitchen meant she sat right beside the stove.

“In my defense.” Her voice went all breathy, the way it did right before she completely derailed my sanity. “I was distracted just now thinking about that thing you did with your tongue.”

Fire shot through my veins. “Yeah?” I shifted to face her, stepping between those long, dangerous legs, my hands finding bare skin that felt as smooth as silk under my callused palms. Her fingers trailed up my neck, threading into my hair in a way that made my brain short-circuit. “What thing was that?”

She leaned forward, her lips brushing my ear. “You know exactly what thing.” Her husky whisper could bring stronger men than me to their knees. “The one that made me—”

I crushed my mouth to hers, swallowing her words. She tasted like toothpaste and pure temptation. When her long legs wrapped around my waist to drag me closer, I almost surrendered.

“Thought you were hungry?” The words came out rough, my lips brushing hers as I spoke.

“Starving.” But the way she rolled those hips against me? Food was the last thing on her mind.

An hour later, a plaintive meow pulled me from my satisfied haze for the second time. Bright sat at the foot of the bed, somehow managing to look both hopeful and thoroughly disgusted.

“Your boy’s angry.”

Lily burrowed deeper into my side, her nose finding the hollow between my arm and the pillow. “Promised him grilled cheese.”

I shoved up on my elbow and swept her tangled hair away from her face. Her eyes stayed shut, dark lashes fanned against flushed cheeks. “Bad fur mom, starving your kid of his midnight snack.”

One eye cracked open, pinning me with a glare no less lethal at half-strength. “Got distracted.”

I grunted, but didn’t fight a smile. “You still hungry?”

She rolled onto her back and her other eye popped open. “Will you be annoyed if I say yes?”

I pressed one last kiss to her throat before rolling to the side of the bed. “Nope.”

I swung my legs over the side as I pulled my boxers back on. No practice, no games loomed ahead—nothing but free time stretched before me. I’d need to head home for a change of clothes soon, but other than that? It’d take an act of God to separate me from Sutton.

At the door, I paused, looking back at the woman watching me from her bed. Dark hair splayed over the pillows, eyes heavy-lidded but not from sleep. The blanket draped low, teasing at curves I already craved exploring again. Need punched through my chest—to take her home with me, to learn the rhythm of her days, and her mine. To weave myself into her world.

“Come keep me company.” The words escaped before I could second-guess them.

Her smile bloomed slow and sweet as she slid from the bed. She swiped my henley from the floor, tugging the fabric over her head. The sight of her draped in my clothes sparked fresh hunger, but her stomach let out a loud grumble. When she ducked her head and tried retreating to bed, I snaked an arm around her waist.

As she shrieked and laughed, I half-carried, half-dragged her into the kitchen. Boosting her up onto the counter again, I dove into sandwich-making mode, ready to impress my girl with some serious skills.

But one peek in her mini-fridge had me groaning. “Hollywood, processed American slices? Just the one kind?”

“Feeling judged here.” Her laugh rolled through me like whiskey.

“Three cheeses minimum for proper grilled cheese.” I planted my hands on my hips, eyeing her pathetic pantry. “And this? Square white bread? Sacrilege.”

“Pardon me, Chef Vignier.” She swung her feet, bumping the bottom cabinet with her heels. “Enlighten me on the proper ingredients.”

“Sharp cheddar for bite.” I layered the sad American cheese on the pitiful excuse for a slice of bread. I could make it work. “Gruyere for melt factor. Maybe some fontina to smooth it all out. And real bread—sourdough, thick cut.”

“I had no idea there were rules for grilled cheese. And who knew Captain Viggy would have all the know-how?”

I nodded, slanted her a wink. “I know a little something about delivering a top tier grilled cheese experience.”

She blushed, that color revving me up when I should have been exhausted.

“Tone it down, there, Hollywood. I said grilled cheese. Not sex.” I laughed at her sputtering as the butter sizzled in the pan. “I’ll make you one at my place sometime. Show you how it’s done right.”

Her legs stopped swinging. The sudden quiet pulled my attention from the stove. All the playful energy drained from her face, leaving something darker in its wake.

“You’re thinking too loud.” I flipped the sandwich, but then switched my attention back to the shadows in her eyes as the butter sizzled in the pan. “Spill, Hollywood. Unless it’s X-rated. If that’s the case, you’re gonna have to let me fuel up before you take me for another round.”

The joke fell flat. No spark of mischief lit her eyes, no sassy comeback. That kind of line should earn me at least a smirk.

She rolled her eyes, but held her shoulders taut. “Can’t a girl want a midnight snack without an interrogation?”

“Not when she’s torching innocent bread.” I nodded at her charred casualties in the sink from before she’d distracted me with her wandering hands and hungry mouth. “And your face has ‘producer’ written all over it. How dare you think about work while I’m slaving over your stove?”

“My face has what?”

“Same look you get when you’re at work.” I lowered the heat on the sandwich, tracked the deep crease between her dark brows, the way her teeth worried her bottom lip. “Or actually, whenever you mention your boss. You had it the other night at the bar, too.”

“Maybe I’m just hungry.” Her fingers found her pulse point at her wrist, giving away the lie.

“Right. Because hunger makes you count heartbeats at three a.m.”

Her spine snapped straight and she dropped her fingers to the hem of my henley riding high on her thighs. “You are entirely too observant for three in the morning. What happened to my grumpy captain who dodges questions?”

“Saving your midnight snack.” I pressed the spatula against the sandwich, letting butter sizzle. “Now spill.”

“Spill what?”

“Whatever’s giving you that expression, Sutton.”

She slumped against the upper cabinet, gaze fixed on her bare toes. “Long, ugly story.”

Butter sizzled in the pan while Bright wound figure-eights around my ankles. I waited her out.

“I had an assistant.” Her voice came quiet, sad. “Sydney. I even considered her a friend. By the time we worked on our third project together, I’d made her associate producer. I shared everything with her. Including my ideas for future projects.” Her throat worked. “Our last show earned Emmy nods. My next idea? Would’ve blown that out of the water.”

A muscle ticked in my jaw, a suspicion forming. “What happened?”

“She stole my idea. Took the project straight to the network. Labeled my work her own.” Hurt soured her laugh. “While I gushed about my plans, the things we could do, the good we could do, she made backroom deals. Then when I fought back? She twisted everything. Made me sound like the thief stealing her genius idea.”

The spatula bent under my grip. “She stole your work?”

“By the time she finished torching my name, studio security wouldn’t let me through the front door. I used to have executives on speed dial. I ‘did lunch’ with producers and notables.” She dragged in a shaky breath. “Then I had to watch her rise for three years, while I burned through my savings. Crashed on Adele’s couch. Maybe I’d had a bit of an ego, but I’d really wanted to make a difference, make good work back then. I didn’t even know how much until it was ripped away. Then Malone dangled the Unleashed project in front of me.”

I stepped between her thighs, close enough to share breath but not crowd her. Her citrus scent wrapped around my head, but the lost look in her eyes curled my fingers into a fist.

“Three years.” The whisper hit my chest like a blade. “Three years of watching her live my dreams while I drowned.”

“From Emmy nods to Unleashed ? Malone’s offer must have felt like a second chance.” Sharp understanding hit home. Bitter compromise left scars deeper than any game injury.

“I needed a way back in. He offered it. For a price.” She stared at her hands. Her voice, her hunched shoulders screamed more secrets, but pushing would only make her retreat. Eight months of dancing around each other had taught me nothing if not patience.

She continued in a small, defeated voice. “He’s not known for winning Emmys, that’s for sure. He doesn’t hide what he does. He’s all about ratings and what’s hot at the moment. And at this moment, that’s hockey. But the Malone brand skirts the edge of decency. You’ve criticized me before about editing, but Malone calls my editing too wholesome for mainstream, says they’re holding a job for me at Hallmark. Working for Malone has been a lesson in compromise. A lesson that just keeps on teaching.”

Her voice faded, the color draining from her cheeks and my protective instincts roared to life. “But once this is over, you’ll have more opportunities?”

“That’s the hope. He’s buried my name in the credits as assistant to the producer, but at least it’s there. I’m hoping maybe this convinces old contacts to pick up the phone again. Or at least opens a door somewhere. Something. It’s got to be worth it in the end.”

“Working with a bunch of hockey players is that bad, eh?”

Her palm warmed my cheek, thumb brushing across stubble. “You guys are the easy part.” She wrinkled her nose. “Your sandwich is burning.”

“Getting crispy. A good grilled cheese needs to be crispy on the outside.” My fingers tightened on the spatula, anger burning in my gut at the thought of industry vultures circling her. Then Malone descending on the carcass of her career. Exploiting her drive, her hunger to succeed.

A cranky meow broke through my spiraling thoughts. Bright glared from his perch on the island counter, his smooshed face radiating feline judgment.

“Seriously?” I raised my eyebrow at Sutton. “What happened to ‘he’s not allowed on the counters when there’s food’?”

Her laugh—soft and real, without the Hollywood polish—curled low in my belly. “No food up here. He follows rules.” Her eyes sparkled. “Unlike certain pushy hockey players in my kitchen.”

The teasing in her voice did dangerous things to my control. “Didn’t hear you complaining about pushy earlier.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, but she held my gaze. “Maybe I’m losing my edge. I used to be better at keeping my guard up.”

Something in her voice—that hint of vulnerability she seldom revealed—made my chest tight. Made me want to drag her close, show her she didn’t need to keep her guard up. Not with me.

Instead, I flipped the sandwich, letting the sizzle of butter in the pan fill the silence between us. Safer than acting on the urge to touch her. To protect her from everything that had made her build those defenses in the first place.

She’d burrowed under my skin and she wasn’t retreating. She was fragile and I sensed I needed to tread carefully, but she hadn’t retreated from a real conversation.

I slid the perfectly golden sandwich onto a plate, passed it over. “Give it a minute, Hollywood, or the cheese will burn your tongue. We can’t have that.” I turned the stove off and set the pan aside. I moved to stand between her legs, my hands smoothing over the silk of her thighs, and whispered into the curve of her ear. “You gonna let me slip past your guard?”

Her laugh rippled through me, warm, effortless, the kind that sank into my bones. She pressed a hand against my chest, not pushing me away—just holding me there, like she needed the space but didn’t really want it. That smile—her real one, not the Hollywood polish—lit up her eyes. Felt like a goddamn victory.

She tore off a corner, steam curling up as gooey cheese stretched between the halves. That little smile of hers hit me dead center, a punch straight to the chest.

“I mean,” she said, lifting a brow, “having a stud of a hockey player make me a grilled cheese in the middle of the night? Definitely not on my bingo card.”

“Sometimes following the playbook isn’t the answer.”

“Maybe that’s why I feel...” She trailed off, her pretty eyes darting away.

“Feel what?”

“Hopeful.” The word came out barely above a whisper, something raw and vulnerable in her voice that made my chest tight. “Like maybe things aren’t as bad as I think. Like maybe I can make it to the other side and this mess will have been worth it.”

Her words landed deep, settling beneath my ribs like they belonged there. Shit timing—playoffs looming, my knee screaming, her show stirring up the locker room—but we’d figure it out. I’d spent seventeen years not knowing what my life was missing. I could hold out a little longer. Just until the season wrapped. Just until I said goodbye to hockey.

Because standing here in her tiny kitchen, wearing nothing but boxers while she wore my shirt? This felt more real than anything I’d known in years.

I tugged the plate from her unresisting hands. “This one’s for Bright.”

Leaning across the narrow space, I set the half-eaten grilled cheese on the island for her cat, then turned back to the only thing that mattered. My girl. I kissed her slow, deep, letting it root me in the moment. Her fingers curled into my hair; her legs cinched tighter around my waist. The citrus-spice scent of her skin wrapped around me, mixing with butter and toasted bread, with want and warmth and everything I hadn’t known I needed.

She mewled a protest when I lifted her from the counter and headed back to the bedroom. Her laugh wrapped around me like a caress. “Guess you’ll have to make another one for me later, huh?”

“If you earn it,” I growled, but couldn’t keep the smile off my face.

This is what I’d been missing. Not just someone to come home to, but someone who made home feel possible. Who saw past the C on my jersey to the man beneath.

Who made midnight grilled cheese taste like forever.