Page 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Lily

Hockey Rule #69: Respect the code Media Rule #69: Break news, break rules

The summons to the arena luxury box came fifteen minutes before puck drop for Game Seven of the Second Round against Richland and could have only been from one person.

My heels clicked against polished concrete, each step a metronome counting down to confrontation. The route burned into muscle memory after months of traversing the arena’s warren of corridors, but tonight felt different. Heavy. Final.

Malone lounged in one of the club chairs like a king on his throne, Manhattan in hand, familiar smirk on his face. Beside him sat Traver, the only thing surprising in this encounter. I hadn’t realized the cameraman was so ambitious. But then, he was young. He’d drank Malone’s Kool-Aid, just as I had. My stomach rolled even as I pasted on a neutral expression.

“Lily.” He lifted his glass in mock salute. “Join us for a drink?”

“We’re about to start Game Seven against the Richland Renegades, probably the best team in the league. We lose tonight, we go home. I should be monitoring game footage.” I kept my voice steady despite the adrenaline dumping into my system. I turned my stare to Traver who shifted in the leather seat. “As should you.”

Traver shrank his long, lanky form into his chair. The presence of my lead cameraman set off warning bells in my mind. I cataloged micro-expressions, body language, the way he wouldn’t quite meet my eyes.

“There’s been a rather interesting development, though, Lily, my friend.” Malone’s voice carried that special edge that made my skin crawl. “Traver here tells me you and Adele have been... rewriting the narrative.” He set his glass down with deliberate care. “Something about a tribute episode? That’s what you’re leading with? After I trusted you to deliver real content?”

I inhaled a small breath. Released. And smiled. “The fans are responding to Jack’s determination. His dedication. His team defeated Chicago in the first round. The Aces came into this round against the Renegades as the underdogs, but they’ve forced a game seven. This is compelling television—”

“We’ve been over this.” His words sliced through mine. “The viewers want drama. Conflict. The failing captain’s last desperate grab at glory. That’s what sells. You saw the results. I can’t believe you’re still here, spouting this goody-two-shoes Hallmark bullshit.”

My brain shifted into overdrive, every scenario snapping into place like puzzle pieces I didn’t want to fit. Producer instincts mapped out possible outcomes, but my pulse was a runaway train, hammering against my ribs. Outside this room, the arena buzzed with Game Seven energy, a living, breathing thing. And somewhere below, Jack was lost in his pregame routine, oblivious to the battle unfolding in his name.

“The ratings—”

“The ratings need controversy.” Malone leaned forward, all pretense of casual conversation evaporating. “And you’re going to give it to them. Or you can kiss your career goodbye. Again.”

The threat hung between us, sharp as a blade.

I pried my fingers open, forcing my spine straight even as every instinct screamed to shrink back. “The fans are invested in this story. In Viggy. Destroying him now—”

“Let me make something clear.” The shift in his voice sent a cold spike through me, low and controlled, the kind that had me quietly tracking exits. “You exist in this industry because I allow it. Your precious redemption arc? That was me. Your chance to matter again? Me.” He leaned in, Manhattan abandoned, his presence pressing in like a threat. “So, when I tell you what the viewers want, what this show needs—”

“The show needs—”

“The show,” he cut in, “needs exactly what I say it needs. Or you can crawl back to whatever hole you were hiding in before I gave you this chance.”

My gaze flicked to Traver, seeing the resignation in his hunched shoulders. Another reminder that loyalty meant nothing in Malone’s world. But maybe that was the point—the real victory wasn’t in playing his game anymore.

I smoothed imaginary wrinkles from my skirt, buying time to steady my voice. “You’re right.” Professional. Controlled. “Drama sells. I’ll make the adjustments.”

His smile widened, predatory and pleased. “Good girl. I knew you’d see reason.”

The condescension in his tone would have cut deep once. Now it just reinforced that Adele and I were making the right choice.

I stood, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my pants. “If that’s all? I have a game to cover.”

“That’s all.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Looking forward to seeing what you deliver.”

Walking out felt like victory, even knowing the real fight was just beginning. My heels struck concrete again, each step carrying me further from Malone’s influence and closer to the story I actually wanted to tell.

The one about a captain who gave everything for his team. Who led by example and inspired loyalty not through fear, but through genuine connection. The real Jack Vignier, not the caricature Malone wanted to sell.

Let Malone make his threats. Some stories deserved to be told right.

The arena’s energy wrapped around me as I headed for the press box, carrying the promise of Game Seven glory or heartbreak. Above me, the championship banners rippled in the climate-controlled air. Below, fans streamed toward their seats while “Welcome to the Jungle” thundered through the speakers.

Another inhale. Another controlled release.

Time to document history, Malone’s demands be damned.

“That transition’s still rough.” Adele’s voice carried the scratchy edge of too many hours staring at screens. She slouched lower in her chair, feet propped on our makeshift editing station. “Try dropping in that clip from January—the one where he’s teaching Riley the face-off technique.”

We sat alone in the tiny office allotted us by the Aces organization. Alone in the entirety of the Aces Performance Center for the first—and last—time.

I nibbled my bottom lip as I studied the same footage. Jack’s patient instruction. Riley’s eager nods. The quiet leadership that cameras captured but we’d ignored all season.

I dragged a different clip into position, muscle memory taking over despite my exhaustion. We’d been at this for hours, piecing together moments that showed the real Jack Vignier. The man behind the carefully constructed captain’s mask.

“There.” Adele pointed at the screen. “That’s the story. Not the knee, not the drama. Just... that.”

On screen, Jack demonstrated some fancy hockey maneuver with two of his teammates, his movements precise even after a brutal practice session. The footage captured everything about him that Malone had tried to twist into controversy—the dedication, the intensity, the way he put everyone else first, no matter what.

My throat tightened watching him. Even now, even after everything, the sight of him in that practice jersey—the quiet confidence, the way he commanded respect without demanding anything more than to be allowed to play the game he loved—stole my breath.

“You ready to record your part?” Adele’s voice went gentle.

My fingers found their spot at my wrist, seeking that steady pulse. Tap, tap, tap. “Yeah. Just... give me a minute.”

She nodded, pulling up the recording software while I gathered my thoughts. We’d talked about this—my message for Jack. The one piece of footage that wouldn’t make the final episode. Just for him.

“You want me to stay? I can step out, stretch my legs?”

“Would you mind? Just give me five minutes. This won’t take long.”

She passed me a slim remote. “Press here when you want it to start. Red light on the top of the camera tells you it’s filming. It’s ready whenever you are.” She fiddled another minute before giving me a thumbs up and disappearing out the door.

I inhaled a small breath. Pressed the button. And spoke.

“Jack.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “I owed you the truth weeks ago. About the episode, about Malone’s demands, about...” Another breath. “About how I fell in love with you somewhere between trying to tell your story and actually seeing you.”

The confession burned my throat, one I’d never be able to give him face to face. I forced myself to continue. “You deserved better than what I handed you. Better than someone who let fear drive her decisions. This episode—” I gestured to the office, to the monitors and cameras littering the space and representing months of work, “—this is what I should have done from the start. This is the story I wanted to tell.”

I sucked in another breath even as my eyes burned.

“The real story isn’t about injuries or controversy. It’s about seventeen years of leading by example. About making everyone around you better. About...” My voice cracked. “About being exactly the kind of man I wish I’d been brave enough to choose over my career.”

I swiped at my cheeks, professional composure cracking. “I hope someday you can forgive me. But even if you don’t—you should know that you changed me. Made me remember who I used to be before I learned to compromise my values. So... thank you. For reminding me. For everything.”

Silence filled the tiny office and I hit the button again to end the recording. I had a million more words to say, but no right to say them. No right to demand more of his time.

I gave in then. Let the tears fall until my shoulders shook and my stomach clenched. Until I struggled to breathe and could no longer see. My five minutes must have passed, because between one moment and the next, I found myself in my best friend’s arms, sobbing my heart out.

Filled with regret.

Torn apart by what could have been.

While I’d been worried about impressing some lowlife, Jack had been showing me what it meant to believe in something and do the best you can do, no matter the cost. No matter the risk.

“It’s going to be okay.” Adele’s voice was rough. “You’re going to be okay.”

I nodded, but the motion was hollow, a reflex, a lie. Nothing was ever going to be okay again.

But I had a mission now—one that had been taking shape in the quiet spaces between heartbreak and realization, rooting itself deep in my chest. I might never hold Jack again, might never feel his hands on me, his voice close enough to steal my breath. But I could be the person he’d shown me how to be.

No more compromises. No more choosing the easy way at someone else’s expense. That mistake would never touch me again.

Come hell or high water, I’d be someone he could be proud of. Even if he never saw it. Even if he never knew.

Outside the window, dawn painted the sky in shades of promise I didn’t feel. The training facility would remain empty and quiet for only another hour or so. I quickened my step as I made my way to the locker room. One last task before I could let go.

The thumb drive felt heavy in my palm. Just a small piece of plastic and metal, but it carried the weight of everything I couldn’t say in person. Everything I hoped he’d understand.

I just hoped he’d watch. It would be just like him to toss the thing in the trash. I shook off the thought as I slipped into the Aces’ locker room.

Memory ambushed me—Jack’s locker had always been the epicenter of team activity. The place where strategy sessions formed, where rookies sought advice, where years of leadership had shaped the heart of this team. Now it stood silent, waiting for whatever came next.

I unzipped the duffle wedged on the low shelf, my fingers lingering on the canvas strap, before tucking my parting gift inside. A simple “Jack” written on the side of the thumb drive in my careful script. No explanation needed—he’d know who it was from.

The locker room smelled of athletic tape and victory and memory. Every corner held glimpses of moments I’d captured through my lens, moments that had changed me forever. Jack reviewing plays with Silver. Teaching Riley proper face-off technique. Leading by quiet example even when his knee must have been screaming.

Time to go.

I forced myself to turn away, each step toward the door feeling like lead. This was the right choice—walking away before I could do more damage. Before I could compromise anything else that mattered.

Adele waited in the hired car outside, our bags already loaded. Virginia and a fresh start beckoned. A chance to tell stories that mattered, to be the person Jack had made me brave enough to become.

“Ready?” Her smile held equal parts sympathy and determination.

I slid into the passenger seat, not trusting myself to look back at the building that had housed so many beginnings and endings. “Yeah.”

The sun crested the horizon as we pulled away, painting everything in shades of possibility. Somewhere behind us, a thumb drive waited. A confession. A tribute.

A goodbye.