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Chapter Twenty-Two

Lily

Hockey Rule #63: Practice like you play Media Rule #63: Every moment is an audition

The view count climbed. Engagement spiked. The numbers kept jumping, each refresh higher than the last. They should’ve felt like a win. Instead, my stomach twisted with dread.

The press box vibrated with that special energy that came with sensing blood in the water.

Viggy’s blood.

Side-eyes and whispers from reporters who’d ignored me all season now trying to catch my attention. Power dynamics shifting with every ping of my phone.

I inhaled a small breath. Released. Smiled the professional smile I’d perfected in LA. Let them think what they wanted. Let them see the composed producer who’d delivered exactly what Malone demanded.

Not the woman dying inside.

Movement on the ice caught my eye. Jack. Here. Now. Leading warmups like nothing had changed.

I weighted each word in my notes carefully, hyper-aware of Dave hovering at my shoulder. One wrong reaction now could echo through every newsroom in the league. “Just the usual game stats,” I offered, voice steady despite my racing pulse.

The familiar scent of stale coffee and cheap cologne filled my nose as he leaned closer. “Have to admit, you have me curious what you’re doing next...”

“Play-offs, like everyone else in here. That’s the focus.”

Or, at least, it would be as long as I had any say in things. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? I didn’t have any say. To keep the next episode focused on game play, I would have to hide it from Malone. And I would. With the way Del broke down this morning over coffee, I had a feeling she’d be with me, too. And Traver and the rest of the crew… we would manage something. Get us through the last few weeks until the Aces either won the Cup, or ended the season.

The open laptop before me tracked nothing but game stats now. My future as a storyteller didn’t lie in hunting for drama or feeding the endless appetite for behind-the-scenes content. There had to be better stories to tell. Truer ones.

Blue jerseys flowed across the ice below, a protective wall of bodies surrounding Jack during warmups. Their message screamed loud and clear through their positioning—shield the captain from vultures. The industry might be chomping at the bit for dirt, but the team’s closed ranks told the real story.

What’s next? Such a loaded question. Three years I’d fought to hear exactly this kind of industry attention again. Now all I could think about was the way Jack’s eyes had warmed when he laughed at my attempts to cook, or how perfectly we’d fit together during the lull after the season. How feeling him against my back after he’d exhausted me gave me the best sleep I’d had in three long years. Worry free. Happy.

Below, Chicago’s enforcer invaded Jack’s space during warmups. Testing. Probing for weakness I’d handed them on a silver platter. But Jack just adjusted—that fluid power that made everyone else fade into background noise. The subtle shift of muscles I’d once traced in the pre-dawn light of his kitchen. Back when I was just a woman falling in love, not a producer chasing ratings.

My phone buzzed—an LA producer I used to know wanting to discuss my “unique perspective on sports narratives.” He’d ignored my requests for a meeting after the Sydney situation. Blacklisted me along with the rest of them. I turned it face down without reading the rest.

“You’ve got the whole industry’s attention,” Dave noted, his tone carefully neutral, but his question saying he’d seen the name on the incoming call. “Isn’t this when you capitalize on your success?”

My smile felt more genuine this time, though my fingers still found that spot on my wrist. “Maybe it’s time for different kinds of stories.”

He studied me over the rim of his coffee cup. “Right. Stories.” His knowing look hit close to home. “Nothing to do with a certain captain.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “Dave—”

“Hey, no judgment here.” He held up his hands. “But speaking as someone who’s covered this team for fifteen years? That man down there? He’s the real deal. The kind of player—the kind of leader—who comes along once in a generation.” He paused, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “Maybe the kind worth knowing as a person, not just content for your big break.”

I bristled slightly at his tone. Dave was decent enough for a sports reporter, and we’d developed a cordial working relationship over the season, but we weren’t friends. He chased headlines while I created content—different ends of the same media circus, maybe, but not the same thing. Still, something in his words hit home.

My throat tightened as I thought of the break before the playoffs. Quiet conversations over midnight grilled cheese, the way Jack’s eyes had crinkled when he really laughed. A few days of moments that had nothing to do with ratings or career comebacks. “I thought I could have both.” The confession came low, a secret in the middle of a group of hungry reporters.

“Maybe.” He shrugged, turning back to his notes like the seasoned reporter he was, already moving on to the next story. “Or maybe it’s time to figure out what success really means to you.”

The truth in his words settled deep in my chest. I’d spent so long trying to claw my way back into the industry’s good graces, I’d forgotten why I fell in love with storytelling in the first place. The real moments. The human connections that couldn’t be captured in carefully edited montages.

The future stretched out before me, full of possibilities that had nothing to do with ratings or industry acclaim. I just had to be brave enough to chase them.

Jack’s press conference after the game twisted something in my chest. He stood at the podium, spine rigid, answering questions with the kind of measured control that had reporters practically salivating. The same control I’d felt melt away under my touch late at night, when he’d let his guard down to reveal the man behind the captain’s mask.

“Your episode really undermined everything hockey stands for,” muttered Williams from ESPN, disgust clear in her eyes as she invaded my space. “Way to turn playing through pain into some kind of scandal. You clearly don’t understand this sport at all.”

I shifted from one foot to the other, maintaining neutral eye contact while my fingers rolled into a fist. The veteran reporter had twenty years of hockey coverage under her belt. Her condemnation carried weight.

But so did Malone’s ratings demands and my desperation to matter in the entertainment industry again. That combination had turned hockey’s warrior spirit into clickbait, and now I had to own it.

“Just telling the story that was there,” I replied, voice steady despite my churning stomach. Professional mask holding even as shame burned through me.

“Right.” Her tone dripped acid. “Because that’s what hockey needs—another outsider turning toughness into controversy for views.”

My stomach lurched, but I turned my gaze toward the podium Viggy stood behind as yet another reporter drilled him about the episode instead of the game his team had just won.

“Sources suggest the knee injury occurred earlier in the season,” he pressed. “Care to comment on why you didn’t report it then?”

Viggy shifted his weight. I knew that tell—he was hurting, trying to find a comfortable position without showing weakness.

“We’ve covered this,” he said, voice steady despite the edge of exhaustion I could hear. “I’m cleared to play. That’s what matters.”

“But Unleashed clearly showed—”

“Next question.”

I knotted my fingers at his sharp tone, irritation prickling under my skin. He should be icing that knee right now, focusing on the next game. Not standing here playing twenty questions with reporters who thought one stupid episode made them experts on his condition. The whole thing was ridiculous—everybody wanting their pound of flesh from a man who’d given seventeen years to this sport.

“Your ice time was down in the third,” someone called out. “Coach limiting your minutes or is the knee worse?”

Jack’s jaw clenched. I’d felt those muscles tense under my fingers once, knew exactly how to soothe them with gentle touches. Now I could only watch as he navigated the minefield I’d created.

“Coach makes the calls he needs to make. I trust Coach Mack to know what’s best for this team.” His gaze swept the room, landing on me for a fraction of a second before moving on. That brief contact stole my breath—not because of lingering attraction, though God knew that hadn’t faded, but because I finally understood what I’d lost when he looked away.

“That’s all for tonight.” The PR director stepped in, ending the feeding frenzy. Jack strode away from the podium, no hitch in his stride, no hesitation to hop down from the elevated dais and leave the reporters to feed on the miniscule sound bites he’d given them.

A face I recognized from TNT touched my arm as the room began to clear. “That episode’s opening doors, Sutton. My network’s very interested in—”

“Excuse me.” I cut him off, gathering my things with trembling hands. Once, network interest would have felt like validation. Now it made my stomach twist.

Maybe I’m done with other people’s plans. The thought blazed through my brain like a meteor. I needed to find new options, a different path.

I had to remember who I was without Malone’s influence. Without the ghost of Sydney. Without the desperate need to prove myself to an industry that’d shut me out years ago.

“Either you’re having an existential crisis, or those cookies I brought aren’t as good as my mom claims.” Adele breezed into our closet-sized production office, two coffee cups in hand and a paper bag tucked under her arm. Her smile softened as she took in my expression. “Ah. The first one then.”

“Your mom’s cookies are perfect.” I accepted the coffee, breathing in the familiar comfort of our morning ritual. The spicy scent of vanilla chai and coffee beans did little to settle the tornado in my stomach. In less than two hours, I’d be trapped on a plane with the entire Aces organization. With Jack .

My thumb found my pulse point, tapping out a frantic rhythm. “Are you sure we need the whole crew?”

“Full coverage through the playoffs.” Adele settled into the room’s other chair, which we’d liberated from a storage closet months ago. “Besides, someone’s got to keep you from spiraling.”

I huffed out a laugh that held zero humor. Because sure, watching Jack ignore me for the entire flight would be a barrel of laughs. At least Malone wouldn’t be there to witness my slow descent into madness. Small mercies.

“Speaking of spiraling...” Adele twisted her coffee cup, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Remember how I mentioned my mom’s getting married again?”

I nodded, grateful for any distraction from thoughts of being trapped in a metal tube at thirty thousand feet with a man who probably wanted to chuck me out the emergency exit. “In Virginia, right? To the guy with the all the kids? Together they should have enough for a whole football team, huh?”

“Pretty nearly.” Adele nodded, picking at the tin of cookies. “Between them they’ve got six—his four plus her two from her second marriage.” Adele poked at the burnt cookies with a spatula. “Mom sent pictures of the venue yesterday. This gorgeous converted barn outside Richland. Got me thinking about home, you know?”

The wistful note in her voice caught my attention. “Del?”

“I haven’t been back in what, ten years? Not since before I moved to LA.” She abandoned the cookies to slump back in her chair. “Remember that documentary series we talked about doing? The one about small-town stories?”

“The one you said would bore people to tears?” I managed a weak smile.

“I may have been wrong about that.” She pulled out her phone, fingers flying over the screen. “Look at this indie company in Savannah. They’re doing these amazing community pieces. Stories that actually matter.”

“Since when are you interested in small market productions?” I studied her face, seeing something beyond her usual frenetic energy.

“Since I realized maybe we’ve been chasing the wrong kind of stories.” Her eyes met mine. “Since I watched my best friend compromise everything she believes in just to get back in the game.”

The simple truth in her words hit harder than Mark’s threats ever could.

“Maybe we could make it work. Something small. Low overhead. We could do most of the production between us. We’d need equipment. No way I’m going to half-ass quality.” She lifted her gaze to meet mine. “But maybe simple, honest stories would be nice for a change.”

My heart kicked against my ribs. Simple stories, beautifully told. The kind of work I’d dreamed of doing before Sydney taught me to compromise. Before I’d turned into exactly the kind of producer I used to despise.

Before I’d hurt Jack.

“You know what’s wild?” Adele’s voice took on that dreamy quality she got when a big idea was brewing. “All these years we’ve been playing by other people’s rules. Fighting for scraps at someone else’s table.”

I studied my friend’s face, seeing past her usual frenetic energy to something deeper. “What are you really saying, Del?”

“I’m saying...” She squared her shoulders. “I’m saying maybe it’s time we built our own table. Start our own production company.” Her words picked up speed, excitement bleeding through. “Think about it—we could tell the stories we want to tell. The real ones, the ones that matter. No more Malones telling us what sells.”

My hand froze halfway to my wrist. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.” She leaned forward, eyes bright. “And Virginia... Lily, there are so many untold stories there. Not just sports—though God knows there’s plenty of that between the Norwalk Breakers football and Renegades hockey, if we wanted to go that way. But there are real people’s stories, too. The kind you used to live for telling.”

“Del.” My throat tightened as the magnitude of what she was suggesting hit me. “That’s... that’s a huge risk.”

“Maybe. But who better to take it with than family?” Her smile went soft around the edges. “Because that’s what we are, right? And maybe it’s time for both of us to figure out what that means. Me with my mom’s new Brady Bunch club, and you...” She gestured wildly in the direction of my head. “You finding your voice again. The real one.”

A knock at the door cut through the moment. One of our production assistants stuck his head in. “Car’s here. We should head out if we want to make it through security.”

But Adele’s words had already taken root, offering a possibility I hadn’t let myself consider. A future not built on compromise and manufactured drama, but on the kind of storytelling that had made me fall in love with this career in the first place.

The kind of future that might let me look in the mirror again.

And see myself alone in the mirror. No Jack Vignier. But maybe that was the price of finding myself.

Reality crashed back in. In less than three hours, I’d be sharing the same confined space as Jack. Probably not close—he’d be up front with the team while the crew settled in the back. But close enough that his presence would mess with my head.

Close enough that the scent of his cologne might drift back, the scent sharp, clean. The very essence of him, guaranteed to twist my insides into pretzel shapes.

They say scent triggered memories, and I could confirm. Just imagining his scent…

Three a.m. texts lighting up my phone. Stats and facts and historical what-ifs, each message revealing the hockey nerd he tried so hard to hide behind that stoic captain facade.

Then there was the afternoon I’d come out of my bedroom to find him sprawled across my loveseat. The mighty Jack Vignier, dead to the world, with my supposedly human-hating cat curled on his chest like he belonged there.

But my producer’s brain failed me. No amount of professional distance could protect me from the way these fragments of memory ricocheted through my system, leaving jagged wounds I wasn’t sure would ever heal.

Eight months of working together, two weeks of falling in love, and nothing—not my career, not my carefully constructed walls, not even my understanding of who I was—would ever be the same.

Adele’s words about starting fresh, about building something that was ours, rattled around in my head. The idea held merit—more than merit. It sparked something I hadn’t felt since before Sydney’s betrayal. Hope. Possibility. A chance to do things right.

“Right.” I shoved to my feet, grabbing my go-bag from beside the desk. “Time to face the music.”

“More like time to face the firing squad.” Adele’s eyes sparkled with her usual mischief, but concern lurked beneath. “Want me to create a distraction? Riley’s been hovering around the media room all morning. Poor kid still thinks he can charm me into a date despite our decade-plus age gap. Sweet boy, but...” She shook her head, fond but resolute in her boundaries. “At least his puppy dog routine always lightens the mood.”

“Don’t you dare.” But I smiled, exactly as she’d intended. “Come on. Let’s go document some playoff hockey.”

And I’d try not to think about how Jack’s presence used to steady me. How he’d subtly position himself between me and the chaos, creating an invisible buffer that calmed my nerves without ever touching me in public. A secret shield that no one else noticed, but that grounded me through the most hectic moments.

Or how I’d destroyed any chance of ever feeling that steady again.