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Chapter Fifteen

Lily

Hockey Rule #42: The team comes first Media Rule #42: The deadline comes first

He can’t hate me forever.

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?

Meanwhile, Jack carried the weight of a franchise and the eyes of the hockey world like it was nothing. You could see the strain in his smile, the hesitation in his step if you knew where to look. They were already calling this playoff run “Viggy’s Last Dance.” His teammates had practically stamped the mantra on their foreheads.

Win it for Viggy.

And me? I’d already sold him out.

Without Malone breathing down my neck, I’d have crafted such a different story. Shown Jack pushing through not just for another Cup run, but for the dreams riding on his shoulders. His father’s expectations. His team’s desperate mission. The fans praying for a fairy tale ending.

Bile rose in my throat.

Hockey ran on heart and grit and brotherhood. Jack deserved his story told right. Deserved the world to see the raw power of his sacrifice, the quiet strength that made men follow him into battle night after night.

And what had I given him? Garbage. Sensationalized, ratings-grabbing garbage wrapped in a pretty bow for Malone’s approval. My stomach churned, bitter acid climbing up my throat as the truth sank bone-deep.

And Viggy wouldn’t forgive it. The unguarded moments caught on the crew’s cameras—him struggling through physio when he thought no one was watching, the quiet conversations in “empty” hallways about pain management, the mask slipping in the locker room after everyone else cleared out. Once I knew what to look for, finding the footage had been a breeze. He’d always known we were filming. Had signed the same release forms as everyone else.

But there’s a difference between knowing cameras exist and expecting someone to stitch together, every vulnerable moment into a highlight reel of your breaking points.

My hands shook as I remembered signing off on the final cut. The voiceover script that picked apart his injury history.

All for what? Raw, choking fear of never getting back what I’d lost. Of being stuck in career purgatory because I let my conscience get in the way of my comeback. Sydney taught me exactly what happened to people who chose principles over ambition in this industry.

I’d waited three years, made a contract with Mark Malone, despite knowing his reputation, because he was the only person willing to give me a chance. I’d admitted as much to Jack. Aces Unleashed was a solid shot at redemption. All I had to do was sacrifice Jack’s trust.

My phone buzzed. Adele.

Whereeee u at?? Media’s set but u gotta see how the ep is turning out!! In the hideout editing if u need me!!

The truth hit me like a body check into the boards. I had to tell Jack about this week’s episode. He deserved to know what was coming.

Because Mark Malone might be one chromosome up from an amoeba, but he wasn’t wrong about this. The public loved Jack “Viggy” Vignier. They’d devour the episode like sharks scenting blood in the water.

The idea of telling Jack terrified me, the thought of facing those blue eyes, of watching his trust in me shatter… But he deserved to know before the episode aired. Deserved the chance to warn his team, call his dad, get ahead of the story before it exploded in the socials.

I pushed away from the press box window, legs shaky but holding. For the first time in days, my head cleared. I’d existed in a state of bliss between Jack’s apartment and my own, pretending the real world couldn’t intrude. The path ahead would hurt like hell, but better he heard it from me than watch the slaughter unfold on primetime.

In truth, I should have walked away. But I’d dragged Adele into my Malone shit show. After three years of scraping by on her charity, I owed her better than to abandon ship because Malone pulled my puppet strings to do exactly what he’d said he’d have me do when he hired me. I’d done this. I’d created this mess for myself, for Adele and worst of all, for Jack.

Time to face the music. I never should have spent a minute in his bed with this kind of secret. I’d abused his trust with every touch, every kiss. Every shared shower, every whispered pillow conversation, every breath between us had been another opportunity to confess. Come clean.

Instead, I’d delayed and procrastinated. Hoarding memories, convincing myself that there’d still be something between us after he saw the episode.

He’s going to hate me.

My heart pounding, I waved off Dave and left Mark and his insatiable need for drama, to his own devices and made my way through the corridors of the performance center. Staff rushed past me, and I nodded to the familiar faces I passed, my smile a little more brittle than usual, but heartfelt.

Jack would hit the Media Center after changing in the locker room. I’d catch him between—rip off the Band-Aid here and now, before the episode aired.

The knot in my stomach twisted tighter. I’d stood in this spot a hundred times over the last eight months, but never with the weight of a confession burning me alive.

I leaned on one of the stools that gave me a perfect vantage point into the hallway outside the locker room. What would I say to Jack when I saw him? I needed to get my phrasing down, explain things so he remembered what I had at stake. But what were the right words? How could I explain without losing him? The thought of seeing his handsome face fill with disappointment, of a wall closing off the warmth of his eyes, made me sick.

“You waiting for someone in particular, Sutton?”

I jumped at the sound of Coach Mack’s voice. He stood in the doorway. He raised an eyebrow, his face ruddy and bright. He’d started his own celebrations, too.

“I was hoping to catch Jack before he did media.”

Coach nodded. “He’s still with the guys. Media’s gonna have to wait today.” He kicked his thumb over his shoulder toward the locker room. “Having you around all season, I forget you’re actually a rookie. Last practice before the playoffs—the boys get a little wild. Press folks know the drill, they won’t mind cooling their heels an extra few minutes.”

“I see. That makes sense. I hope my crew is getting some good footage.”

“I think I saw Larry passing beer to your guys with the cameras. Don’t let on I told you, eh? They’ve worked hard, too, right?”

My smile nearly cracked my lips. Coach Mack and his “don’t let ons”. “Yes, they have, for sure.” My fingers trembled in my lap and I was positive Mack could hear the nerves in my voice.

“A little jumpy there, aren’t you, Sutton?”

I shrugged. I was jumpy, but the cause wasn’t something I would spill to the coach. “Malone’s walking around the building. You know how it is when the boss is around.” I waved my hand in the direction of the hall. “The man gives me hives.”

“That bad, eh?” He tipped the brim of his cap up, his eyes sharp on me. “Viggy’ll be here tomorrow, too, don’t forget. Can catch him then, if you want to take off now.”

I laughed, the sound frayed at the edges. “I can’t wait that long.”

“This time of year, things get crazy.” Certainty and an odd sense of reassurance, twined through his voice, reaching me on a gut level. “Sometimes things get twisted up in your head and you can’t see straight. My guys turned to Fred the Iguana and transforming my office into a tropical retreat. What are you turning to?”

“I’m not playing hockey, Coach. My head is fine.” Except it wasn’t. I was as twisted up as I was the days after my life imploded in California. No, worse.

“You think so?” He nodded to my hands. “You’re so fine you’re gouging a hole into your wrist.”

I gasped, my wrist suddenly stinging. I’d gouged an angry half-moon into the underside of my wrist.

“Door’s always open, Sutton.” He tossed me an almost paternal smile, but his words did little to soothe my anxiety. The weight of my actions, the potential fallout, the very real possibility that I’d just screwed my future, sat in my gut like a lead weight. If Coach Mack knew the truth, would that door still always be open?

“Thanks, Coach.” I slid from the stool. “You know what? I’m going to take your advice and go find Adele.” My fingers trembled, and I prayed my voice sounded convincing to my own ears.

I skirted around Mack, nearly knocking into a row of sticks propped against the wall as I hurried out of the lounge and down the corridor. I needed to get away. Away from the players, away from the looming threat of Jack. He might only be a couple doors down the hall at that moment, but I’d put miles between us with my actions.

I burst through the doors to the center’s concourse, nearly running until I could duck into the tiny space assigned to the Unleashed crew. Adele had claimed a folding table as her editing throne, and sat there now, laptop open, second monitor glowing, a tablet completing her spread.

She glanced up as I burst into the room, her fingers frozen over her keyboard. “Heyas, Lily.” Her face lit up with her trademark smile, big and beautiful and genuine.

I squeezed my eyes closed, fighting back tears. “I messed up, ‘Del.”

The chair’s wheels squealed as I dropped into the seat beside my best friend. The familiar scent of her vanilla coffee and the gentle whir of her computer should have comforted me. Instead, they reminded me she’d been working, picking through footage for future episodes while I’d been playing in Jack’s bed.

She twisted in her seat to face me, the smile slipping. “Girl, you’re pale as a sheet.” Her eyes tightened. “Did you get into it with Malone? Because I swear to God, that man—”

“No more than usual.” My laugh came out strangled. I forced myself to meet her gaze. “I’m sleeping with Jack. We had these amazing few days—”

“Wait, what ?” Her shriek probably carried all the way to the Media Center. “You’re sleeping with Viggy ?”

Heat crawled up my neck, flushed my cheeks. I stared at the production schedule pinned to the wall behind her. “It kinda just happened.”

“Lies.” The sharp crack of her hand hitting the desk made me jump. “Nothing ‘just happens’ with you, Lily Sutton. You color-code your grocery lists. I knew you must be up to something since your texts were kinda slow the last few days, but girl .” Her emerald eyes locked onto mine. “Spill every last detail. Leave nothing out. Or else.”

So I did. The words tumbled out—chasing him down at Lady Bird Lake, ending up at the same damn patio bar, getting soaked in the rain—the moment our relationship shifted. How we shifted from enemies to something that burned too hot to name. How calling a truce snowballed into his big body in my bed, his hands on my skin, his laugh against my neck at three in the morning. Into these desperate, beautiful days where being away from him hollowed me out.

“I wondered if anything would come of all the sexual tension you two were oozing all season.” Del shot me a know-it-all smirk. “But I didn’t really think you had it in you, Lils. Go you! Scoring with the hockey god!”

My throat tightened. “Can you be serious for a minute?”

“This is serious. How was it?”

I blinked. “How was what?”

She blinked at me, big and slow, like I was the one being dense.

“You are not seriously asking me how the sex was?”

Her eyes lit up as she nodded, red curls bouncing, all mischief and mayhem—as if we were gossiping about some random hookup and not whatever this thing with Jack was.

Or could have been.