Page 20

Chapter Twenty

Lily

Hockey Rule #57: The game deserves your best Media Rule #57: Give the audience what they want

The next day, I tracked Viggy’s movements across my monitor.

Power. Grace. Raw strength.

The way he moved on ice spoke of years of discipline, but I knew so much more about him. Knew exactly how that controlled power translated off the ice. My fingers trembled as I rewound the footage, heat crawling up my neck as I caught his nearly imperceptible hesitation before transferring weight to his left side.

My fingers found their familiar spot on my wrist, pressing into my pulse point as I studied his stride pattern. God, how many hours had I spent dissecting his movements? First as a producer hunting for content, then as a woman who’d mapped those muscles with reverent hands, and now as someone who’d betrayed both roles.

Too much cologne. Way too much. The scent rolled through my tiny office like smog on a late afternoon in LA, triggering every survival instinct I’d ever honed in California. My brain registered the intrusion with brutal efficiency. Mark Malone.

Steady, now.

I inhaled a measured breath, held it for a three-count, released it slowly. Let Lily The Media Maven slide into place with practiced precision—shoulders squared, expression pleasantly neutral, hands relaxed on the desk despite my urge to curl them into fists.

“Quite the game last night.” His voice filled my cramped space, that particular blend of entitlement and condescension unique to men who played gatekeeper. I tracked his movements as he prowled the perimeter of my workspace. “Our captain put on quite a show, didn’t he?”

Our captain.

The presumption in those two words hit like a nasty jolt of electricity against my skin. As if Viggy belonged in Malone’s collection of ratings-generating assets. As if seventeen years of sacrifice could be reduced to forty-seven minutes of docu-reality TV.

My thumb found its familiar spot at my wrist, tapping against the pulse point. Think producer thoughts. Analyze the situation. Work it to your advantage. The predatory gleam in Malone’s shark smile set my gut to churning.

But no way this was a casual visit. Malone was hunting his next salacious ratings win.

“The whole team played well all year.” My voice came out steady, each word carefully measured while I tracked his movements. “Our ratings reflect that.”

“They certainly do.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes, even as he acknowledged the success of Aces Unleashed for the first time. “But I’m more interested in what comes next.”

I forced my fingers to unclench. “The series against Chicago should give us plenty of content.”

“Oh, I think we both know there’s a bigger story brewing.” He paused behind me, close enough that his cologne made my eyes water and my skin crawl. “The way your boy favored that knee after that late hit? I didn’t know hockey was so cutthroat. Didn’t take an expert to see what was going on and, trust me, everyone was watching to see what he’d do.” He chuckled. “The media chatter is on fire.”

The footage on my screen showed Viggy celebrating Riley’s goal, that rare smile breaking through his stalwart game face. The strong cut of his jaw. His pure joy on display—on behalf of his teammate. I swallowed hard and forced my attention back to Malone.

“We’ve covered the injury angle.” The words still tasted like ash on my tongue. “The episode aired. Story’s done.”

“Stories like this are never done , Lily.” He leaned down, his breath hot against my ear. “They evolve. Develop. Escalate .”

My heart thundered against my ribs, but I kept my breathing steady. Resisted the urge to leap up, whirl around, and punt the man and his rank cologne into next week. “Is there something specific you need, Mark? I have work to do.”

“Actually...” He straightened, circling back around to the front of the table with the kind of smile that raised the tiny hairs along the back of my arms. “I have a proposition for you.”

Ice crystallized in my veins.

Game face, Sutton. Whatever comes next, remember—you survived Sydney. You survived being blacklisted by the industry you loved. You even survived Jack’s disappointment.

Though that last one remained debatable.

You can survive whatever Malone throws at you.

Malone settled into the rickety chair pulled up to the other side of the table, the expensive cut of his suit at odds with my cramped office. He steepled his fingers, radiating the kind of confidence that came from holding all the cards.

“How does your own series sound?” His words hung in the air between us like a baited hook. “Full creative control. Bigger budget. Your name in the credits.”

My producer’s brain kicked into gear even as my gut screamed “trap!” Years in the industry had taught me exactly what “creative control” meant when attached to a contract—usually about as much control as a rowboat in a hurricane. As long as someone else held the purse strings, you were never really “in control”.

But my name in the credits put me one big step closer to getting out from under the control of people like Malone.

I kept my expression neutral while my mind raced through the implications. “That’s quite an offer.” Especially for someone whose career had been radioactive until Malone had offered the Unleashed lifeline. “What’s the catch?”

He spread his hands, all faux innocence. “No catch. Just good business. You’ve proven yourself with Unleashed . The numbers don’t lie.”

Right. Because Mark Malone was known for his altruistic support of emerging—or re-emerging, in my case—talent. I suppressed an eye roll and waited.

“The Vignier episode showed exactly what you’re capable of,” he continued, fingers flicking through the papers scattered atop the table. “Raw. Real. The kind of storytelling that resonates. We want more of that—but with other teams, other players. Different cities, fresh stories.”

My throat tightened. “You want more dirt. Exposés.”

“Frame it however you need to, Lily.” His shark smile widened, all teeth and calculated manipulation. “Think about it—a weekly deep dive into the world of professional hockey. Set up all the inspirational stories you want, just make sure there’s enough controversy to keep the socials buzzing.”

My pulse thundered in my ears as I parsed the implications. A clean slate. New subjects. No more betraying Jack’s trust.

Just digging up other people’s secrets instead.

“I’d need to see the terms.” My heart pounded, but I would keep it professional. Stay in the game, as Adele would say. “Timeline? Budget details? Network commitment?”

He pulled a thick envelope from his jacket. Of course he had the contract ready. Sharks always came prepared.

“Everything’s here. Take your time reviewing it. Next time, we’ll get you a real office.” He set the envelope on the table with deliberate care. “But don’t take too long. Opportunities like this? They don’t come around often.”

I fingered the edge of the envelope. Other investors existed, sure. But after the Sydney debacle? My marketability wasn’t exactly at a premium. And Malone knew it.

“Creative freedom within network parameters.” The industry-speak rolled off my tongue while my mind spun through scenarios. “That’s quite a tightrope.”

“You’ve shown you can walk it.” His cologne smothered me as he leaned close. “The question is: are you ready to run with the big boys?”

Oh, I’d run alright. Right into another disaster if I wasn’t careful.

“I appreciate the offer.” My smile felt plastic but held steady. “I’ll review the terms and get back to you.”

“I’ll give you a month to decide.” He straightened, adjusting his already perfect tie. “I’m heading back to California soon. We’re on a deadline, Lily. You need to strike while the iron is hot.”

The moment he left, I slumped in my chair, the contract stinging my fingertips like a poison apple.

Three years of scraping by, of rebuilding my reputation piece by piece, and here was everything I’d wanted served up on a silver platter. With just one tiny catch—I’d have to keep mining private struggles for public consumption.

Because nothing said “creative freedom” quite like contractual obligation to manufacture drama.

My thumb found my pulse point as I considered my options. Time to figure out exactly how much of myself I was willing to sacrifice.

I power-walked through the practice facility corridors, Malone’s contract burning a hole in my bag. My heels clicked against the polished concrete, each step marking time with my racing thoughts.

Think. Breathe. Don’t lose it.

No game tonight, but the playoff buzz still hummed around me—equipment managers hauling gear, trainers discussing player stats, social media coordinator planning content strategies. Normal chaos.

A cluster of reporters huddled near the media room—the team scheduled longer press conferences on practice days for Coach Mack—to dissect last night’s game. I caught fragments as I passed.

“—knee definitely looks worse—”

“—career-ending if—”

“—betting pool on when he—”

My stomach churned. If I just signed on the dotted line and sold what remained of my soul, by this time next year, I could have my career back. A little battered, but everyone in the industry had their skeletons. I’d just be one more with a speckled past.

At least Coach’s office—correction, Fred’s tropical paradise—offered sanctuary. I slipped inside, breathing in the humid air heavy with the scent of tropical plants and fresh mulch.

The transformation still amazed me. Someone had started small after the Paddle for Playoffs event—just a heat lamp and smooth rock. But like any good story, it had evolved. The artificial tree came next, then the water feature, UV lighting, and finally a complete climate control system. Coach’s desk huddled in the only remaining corner, surrounded by Fred’s domain.

“Come on, buddy.” Coach’s voice drifted out from behind the desk. “The jersey’s not that bad.”

I rounded the corner to find him on hands and knees, trying to coax Fred from under the desk. I leaned until I could spy the big lizard in the shadowy area.

Fred still wore the tiny Aces jersey from last night—with the number twenty-seven and a “C” stitched on the chest. The same footage I’d tagged for the editing team to use. “Riley’s idea?” I asked, dropping into the one remaining chair not covered in tropical foliage.

“Kid’s determined to make Fred the team mascot.” Coach sighed as Fred decided the artificial tree looked more appealing than human interaction. “Says if he’s going to live in my office, he needs proper team gear.”

We watched Fred scale the trunk with surprising agility for a three-legged reptile.

“Found another UV lamp upgrade this morning.” Coach pointed to a large branch that hung halfway up the wall, a lamp focused on the flattest portion. He settled back against his desk, eyes tracking Fred’s ascent. “Whoever is behind this swapped out my computer for a mister system over the weekend.” His lips twitched. “I’ve taken to watching film in the lounge or the dining room. Team’s waiting for me to snap about it all. I like to keep them on their toes.”

I thought of Malone’s envelope trashing up my bag. “Sometimes the best leadership means understanding when your team needs a distraction?”

“Exactly.” He turned those sharp eyes on me. “Just like sometimes the best stories aren’t the ones that get the most views.”

My pulse skipped. “That obvious, huh?”

“Malone’s not exactly subtle.” Coach’s gaze drifted back to Fred. “You know, when the iguana first appeared, I could have hunted down the culprit. Been the hard-ass everyone expected. Instead...” He shrugged. “Sometimes you just gotta roll with whatever life tosses your way.”

“Even if it means losing your office to a three-legged iguana in a captain’s jersey?”

“Even then.” He smiled as Fred settled onto the branch. “The real question is: what are you going to do with what life’s giving you?”

I pressed my thumb against my wrist, watching Fred adjust his tiny jersey with his one front leg.

Sitting on the edge of the single folding chair left in the room, I weighed Coach’s words with the same precision I used to edit footage.

“Sometimes following the playbook isn’t the answer,” Coach continued, his attention still on Fred. “Sometimes you have to adapt.”

Adapt or die. The entertainment industry’s unofficial motto. My fingers fidgeted with my Fitbit, adjusting the band while my mind raced ahead like tracking shots in an editing session.

“The playbook’s been working pretty well for certain people.” My producer brain cataloged the scene: Respected coach. Philosophical mood. Perfect lighting from the UV lamps. If I was still chasing ratings, setting up a scene like this would be gold. “Malone’s built quite the empire following his version.”

Coach snorted. “Yeah, but watch out for the hidden costs. You start compromising, telling yourself it’s just this once, this time is special. Next thing you know...” He shrugged, attention on Fred. “You wake up one day and don’t recognize yourself anymore.”

My chest tightened. The words hit too close to home—how many compromises had I made, justifying each one as necessary for my career? Until I’d become exactly what I’d once despised.

I already missed the way his eyes softened when he laughed. The quiet pull of his hand against my jaw that night in the rain. Even the three a.m. hockey fact texts.

But missing the good meant remembering the rest. The look he gave me when it all came apart—that sharp, hollow kind of hurt that said he’d never expected it from me.

I inhaled slowly through my nose, buying time while I processed. “The industry’s not exactly known for second chances.” My voice stayed steady despite the storm in my stomach. “When someone offers you a bridge back…”

“You cross to the other side.” Coach nodded. “But what happens when you realize they’re lighting it up behind you?”

The contract in my bag seemed to pulse with toxic energy. Three years of industry exile had taught me exactly how quickly a career could implode. But watching Jack’s face when he’d confronted me about the episode...

Fred chirped from his perch, adjusting his tiny jersey with surprising dignity. The absurdity of taking career advice while watching a three-legged iguana in hockey gear wasn’t lost on me. Just another day in the glamorous world of sports entertainment.

“You know what I see when I look at Fred?” Coach’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “Adaptation. Innovation. Finding a new way forward when the old way doesn’t work anymore.”

My producer’s brain automatically framed the shot: Wise mentor. Metaphorical wisdom. Emotional resonance. Great, now I’m story-boarding my own existential crisis.

But I didn’t want to package this moment for consumption.

I didn’t want to hide behind my producer’s brain any longer. But the question was, was I brave enough to try something new?

“And if the new way means walking away from everything you’ve ever worked for?” The words scraped my throat raw.

“Then maybe it’s time to redefine what you’re working for.”

Simple words. Seismic implications.

I pressed my thumb against my pulse point, the steady rhythm grounding me as possibilities flashed through my mind. Career success didn’t have to mean selling my soul. Maybe there was another way—one that didn’t require betraying people’s trust or manufacturing drama for ratings.

My spine straightened as certainty settled in my bones. Time to write my own playbook. Assuming I could figure out how to do that without landing myself back in career purgatory.

The certainty coalesced like perfect camera focus. Sharp. Clear. Undeniable.

“Thank you, Coach.” I stood, smoothing my hands over the fabric of my pants suit. “For everything.”

My producer brain kicked into rapid calculation mode: Career trajectory. Industry connections. Financial implications. Each data point flashing through my mind like a ratings report. The math was brutal—walking away from Malone meant walking away from everything I’d spent three years fighting to reclaim.

I didn’t have to give Malone an answer right away.

My pulse stuttered against my thumb. Career suicide wrapped in professional integrity. How terribly inconvenient.

Coach’s knowing smile sent me to the door. “Give ‘em hell, kid.”

But beneath the panic, beneath the strategic assessment of just how thoroughly I was torpedoing my future, something else bubbled up. Something that felt suspiciously like... relief.

Because the truth glowed like a sunrise after a long, scary night: I’d spent so long trying to claw my way back to where I’d been, I’d forgotten to question if that’s where I wanted to go.

The weight that had been crushing my chest since Malone dropped that contract on my desk lifted. Not entirely—I wasn’t completely crazy. I still needed to find a new future. But if I turned down the contract, it gave me enough room to breathe. Enough room to stand.

Enough room to remember who I used to be before Sydney taught me to compromise everything.