Page 19

Chapter Nineteen

Viggy

Hockey Rule #54: Your reputation is built shift by shift Media Rule #54: Your reputation is one viral post from ruin

The scent hit me the second I stepped into the tunnel leading to the ice. Citrus and spice. Lily’s unique scent. My stride hitched, every muscle in my body going rigid.

Fuck. Not now.

I shouldn’t be able to pick her perfume out of the mix of sweaty gear, rubber flooring, and the underlying chill of the arena. Shouldn’t let it throw me off my game like some rookie getting his first taste of playoff hockey. But there it was, catching in my throat, dragging me back to memories of her warm skin under my hands, her soft gasps in my ear.

Just begging me to lift my gaze, search out the source.

Keep walking, Vignier. One foot in front of the other.

The buzz of the crowd filtered down the concrete corridor, building in intensity as we got closer to the ice. Playoff hockey. This was what mattered. Not the woman who’d taken my trust and turned it into primetime entertainment. Not the way my chest tightened every time I caught glimpses of her around the arena today.

“You good, Cap?” Riley bounced beside me, all bouncing puppy energy and wide eyes. The kid radiated excitement. Would probably vibrate right out of his skin his first shift out there.

I grunted. “Remember what we talked about. They’re going to come at you hard early. Don’t get distracted.”

If they didn’t come after me and my fucking knee.

My knee twinged as we hit the rubber matting leading to the ice. I shifted my weight, compensating without breaking stride. The team needed their captain focused, not dwelling on personal shit or physical limitations.

Like it was instinct and not just a habit I’d given into over the long season, I glanced up at the press box. Lily leaned into her usual spot, dark hair falling around her face as she tucked her chin to her chest. Hiding, if I guessed. She’d made herself a target last night, too. My fingers twitched, remembering how that hair felt sliding through them.

Christ. Focus.

Coach Mack caught my eye as I hit the bench, his look knowing. Too knowing. Like he saw right through my game face to the war going on beneath. I squared my shoulders, met his gaze head-on.

Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him because he just nodded. “They’re running their top line to start. You ready?”

The familiar weight of responsibility settled over me. This was what I knew. What I lived for. Game time decisions. Strategy. Leading my team.

Not the way my skin prickled, aware of her presence above us. Not the memories of her laugh in my kitchen, or the soft sounds she made when I kissed that spot behind her ear.

“We’re ready.” My voice came out steady. Captain Jack Vignier, reporting for duty.

My head betrayed me during warmups, tilting up before I could stop myself. She leaned forward on the railing, worrying that damn pen between her teeth as she tracked my movements. Hunting for more pieces of me to expose?

My teeth ground together. Used to dream about yanking away that pen, making her focus on me instead of her notes. Now a glance from her tore open barely healed wounds. She’d never really been mine. Never would be.

The signal came to square up at center ice. Game on.

Time to prove I deserved to be here. Prove the episode wrong. Prove to everyone— to he r—that I wasn’t done yet.

My knee screamed as I settled into position for the opening face-off. I channeled the pain into focus, let it sharpen my mind instead of clouding it.

Playoffs. My last shot. This was what mattered.

If I repeated it enough times, maybe I’d start believing it.

The puck dropped and everything else faded. Almost. For a blessed few seconds, only hockey existed. The clean snap of my stick connecting with the puck, muscle memory taking over as I won the face-off.

But even as I powered down the ice to set up our first offensive push, I fought the urge to look up toward Lily. Images flashed in my mind. Of her typing away on her laptop. Of her marking my every move, the good, the bad, the ugly. Back when her scent on my sheets meant something, I’d have imagined pulling that computer from her hands, and backing her against the glass just to hear her laugh.

Now I imagined the satisfaction of skating past without a glance, of proving her decimation of me wrong with every shift, every hit, every goddamn breath I took on this ice.

Head in the fucking game, Vignier.

Chicago’s top line crashed through the neutral zone, their center gunning straight for me. Good. I could use the contact. An excuse to focus the rage simmering under my skin on something tangible. The hit connected and pain shot through my knee, but I stayed upright, shoving back harder. Caught his shoulder and sent him sprawling.

Coach signaled a line change and I leapt over the wall and onto the bench. At the top of the tunnel, being where he absolutely had no fucking business being, was Malone. I dug my stick into the floor, channeling the anger into my next shift. Let the vulture watch. Let them speculate. I had a fucking game to win.

As expected, Chicago’s defense targeted Riley. The kid handled the extra pressure like a champ, but something in my chest tightened watching him take hit after hit. The need to protect warred with the knowledge that he had to learn to handle himself on the ice.

Kind of like I had to handle the burning in my knee. The constant throb that meant tomorrow would be hell.

Silver caught my eye from the bench, raised an eyebrow in question. I gave him a sharp nod, one he returned. Message received—he’d keep an eye on Riley while I focused on shutting down Chicago’s scoring chances.

Then it was my turn on the ice again.

My muscles burned, sweat trickling down my spine as I powered through another shift. Each stride on my bad knee sent fire up my leg, but that pain? That was nothing compared to imagining her up there, dissecting my every move. Breaking down my game like she’d broken down my defenses.

Fuck if I’d give her more ammunition.

Silver appeared at my right, calling for the pass. Clean tape-to-tape connection, muscle memory taking over. Just hockey. Simple. Unlike the mess she’d made of everything else.

“Looking good, Cap!” Riley’s voice carried across the ice, that damn puppy enthusiasm of his cutting through my dark thoughts.

I grunted, scanning the defensive setup. Quick shifts between players, reading the game flow—this was what I knew. What I could control. Not the way my skin still prickled with awareness of her watching. Not how my body remembered exactly what that citrus-spice scent of hers did to my head.

The puck shot back my way and I buried it in the back of the net. Top shelf where mama hides the cookies.

The crowd erupted. My teammates crashed into me, celebrating like it wasn’t just another goal in just another game. Like I hadn’t let them all down by hiding my injury. By letting her expose our private business to the world.

I shoved up from my celly, jaw clenched against the instinct to look toward the press box. To see if she was watching. If she cared.

Didn’t fucking matter if she cared.

“That’s how you do it!” Silver shouted as we headed off the ice.

I dropped onto the bench, gulping water, spraying more from the bottle on my face. Water ran down my neck, setting off another memory of Lily’s lips. When she’d traced a path down my neck—

Christ. Get it together.

Coach signaled my line for the next shift. My knee screamed as I vaulted over the boards, but I channeled the pain into focus. Into drive.

Because that’s what captains did. We pushed through. Led by example. Even when every cell in our body wanted something— someone —we couldn’t have.

Especially then.

By the time the horn sounded for the end of the period, I’d channeled every ounce of rage and hurt into pure hockey. Three more shots on goal, two hits that’d leave bruises, and enough defensive stops to make Chicago think twice about testing my side. Up by one, and we had the momentum. The team’s energy hummed as we filed into the locker room, that electric playoff atmosphere I lived for.

Didn’t matter. None of it mattered except the next period. The next shift. The next chance to prove I wasn’t done yet.

The game. The team. The Cup.

Everything else was just noise.

Or a splinter just under the skin, one I couldn’t quite dig out.

The second period started the way the first ended—with me fighting a war on two fronts. My knee screamed through every stride, but that was nothing compared to the battle of keeping my head in the game when every cell in my body wanted to track Lily.

Chicago’s best face-off player lined up for the puck drop, cocky grin showing under his visor. “Saw your special last night, old man. Time to retire yet?”

The rage that burned through me had nothing to do with his taunt and everything to do with knowing she was up there. That she’d put me in this position. My stick snapped through the draw with brutal efficiency, sending the puck straight to Silver.

Let them think they knew my story. Let them think they had me figured out.

Five minutes in, Riley broke through their defense like it was made of paper. Kid had wheels when he wasn’t overthinking every move. The puck hit my tape like it was meant to be there. The subtle shift of the defender’s weight telegraphing which way he’d commit, the opening he didn’t even know he was giving me.

I threaded the pass through traffic, right to Riley’s waiting stick.

The goal horn screamed as the puck hit the back of the net. The kid’s celebration was pure joy, his teammates mobbing him against the glass. My chest squeezed watching him—proud and aching and fucking furious that even this moment had her fingerprints all over it.

She’d captured dozens of moments like this for her show. Private celebrations turned public entertainment.

The distraction cost me. I saw Chicago’s bruiser coming just a split second too late as I moved toward Riley and the others. Should’ve squared up better, gotten my weight centered. Instead, I took the full force of his late check with my weight on my bad side. My knee twisted as I went down, white-hot pain stabbing up my leg.

“Shit, Cap.” Silver appeared above me, blocking out the lights. He shouted toward the nearest ref, voice enraged. “Late hit! You gonna allow that?”

I shoved up to my feet, pure stubborn will overriding the daggers in my knee. “I’m good.”

A brawl broke out as Riley went from celebrating his goal to tackling a Chicago player. Gloves dropped everywhere, the ice turning into a battlefield of flying fists and shouted curses. Silver had their captain pinned against the boards while Whitney grappled with another player. Even our usually level-headed goalie had left his net, motioning for their goalie to meet him at center ice.

My boys, defending their captain when I should’ve been protecting them. The irony wasn’t lost on me as I grabbed Riley’s jersey, hauling him off the Chicago player before he could do something stupid enough to get suspended.

The refs sorted players out, leaving us with a power play. We nailed home our vengeance with another goal taking the score to 3–0.

The third period brought a whole new level of hell. Every shift felt like skating through concrete, but I’d be damned if I let anyone see it.

With five minutes left, Chicago’s top line caught us in transition. Their sniper’s shot squeezed through traffic, finding the one inch of space above our goalie’s shoulder.

Five minutes was plenty of time for them to steal this game right from under our feet if we let them.

The next face-off was in our zone. Coach called a timeout, but I already knew what needed to happen. My knee would fucking hold.

“Coming your way,” I said to Han as I lined up.

The puck dropped. Time slowed. Everything I had—seventeen years of experience, countless hours of practice, pure fucking determination not to let this be how my story ended—channeled into that one moment.

Clean win. Right to Han’s tape. The man didn’t hesitate, finding Rivas streaking through the neutral zone. Three passes later, the puck hit the back of their net.

The crowd exploded. My teammates poured off the bench, but I kept my celebration contained. Captain Jack Vignier, doing his job.

Not a man fighting the urge to search the press box, see if she was watching. See if she understood what this win meant.

The final horn sounded with us up 4–1. Game one in the books.

I’d just finished stripping my gear when Riley bounced over from his locker, Fred the Iguana tucked under his arm. The damn lizard wore a tiny Aces jersey, one with my number, complete with a “C” on the chest.

“Look what I found in the shower!” The kid’s grin could power the arena. “Fred’s officially part of the leadership group now.”

A laugh tore loose—rough, unexpected after the grind of the game. Leave it to the puppy to cut through the bullshit with that wide-eyed optimism of his. Most days, his energy made me want to walk into traffic. But right now? Right now, it worked. For me. For the room.

Thanks to the media circus triggered by the Unleashed episode, management gave me a free pass to skip the press today. The trainers would be waiting, ice packs and stern lectures at the ready. But for a moment I let myself sink into the simple joy radiating through the room. Let the win matter more than the cost to my body.

Movement in the hallway caught my attention. Lily stood just outside the open door. When our eyes met, the genuine concern in her expression hit harder than any check I’d taken tonight. She turned away fast, but not before I caught the way her fingers pressed against her wrist—that unconscious tell of hers when something got to her.

Fuck.

The memory of those fingers on my skin, burned through my carefully maintained defenses. I should hate her. Should be able to write her off as just another vulture looking for a story.

But as she disappeared from the doorway, memory betrayed me—the silky sweet weight of her against my body as vivid in my mind as if she was still pressed against me in my kitchen. The truth slammed into me with brutal clarity.

She still mattered. Still owned pieces of me.

And that? That was more dangerous than any injury I’d ever hidden. Because a bum knee might end my career, but Lily Sutton? She could break more than just my body.