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Chapter Twenty-Five

Lily

Hockey Rule #77: Start on time. Finish strong Media Rule #77: Start small. Stay real

Morning sunlight spilled across Sugar Squared’s glass storefront, turning it soft gold, the kind of glow that begged to be captured. My dirty chai—a ritual I’d never surrender—sent steam curling into the air, warm and spiced with cinnamon.

Back in my old life, my crew would’ve scrambled for their cameras, framing the perfect shot, chasing angles, adjusting exposure. But here, in the heart of Mapleton’s historic town square, beauty simply existed. No filters. No staging. Just real.

Still, habit ran deep. My producer brain ticked through the details, cataloging without permission. The pressed tin ceiling, burnished smooth by time. Wood plank floors, heavy with the weight of a century’s worth of morning footsteps. Cast iron shelving, framing delicate glassware and trays of fresh pastries. Wildflowers, hand-painted in soft blues and yellows, climbing the walls like something plucked from a storybook.

Voices blended in the air, a warm hum thick and slow, like honey dissolving into tea.

I pressed my thumb against my wrist, counting heartbeats until the urge to reach for nonexistent camera equipment passed. Three months into small-town life, and I still caught myself trying to package every moment.

“I swear, this boy is determined.” Adele’s laugh carried across the room where she perched at a side counter, phone in hand as she showed something to Rae. “Look at this text. Who sends shower thoughts about defensive strategies at three a.m.?”

“Riley does, apparently.” Rae Hossman—wife of Hoss, the former NHL hotshot turned hockey guru—leaned in to see the screen. Her perpetual scowl softened just a fraction, betraying the heart of gold she tried so hard to hide behind her prickly exterior.

Sugar Squared might be Three Corners’ favorite bakery, but its owner had a reputation for being as sharp as the knives in her kitchen. Only Hoss seemed immune to her bite, his endless optimism and enthusiasm for life the perfect balance to her cynicism.

Looking back at Riley’s relentless optimism over the last year, it was obvious the rookie came by his puppy energy naturally.

Rae arched a brow. “Though I have to admit, his enthusiasm is kind of adorable, in an annoying kind of way. God help me, I’m surrounded by human golden retrievers. Save me now, please.”

The mention of three a.m. texts caught me off guard, throwing me into a flood of memories before I could brace against them. My throat tightened. Jack used to do the same thing. Historical stats and game theory showing up on my phone at impossible hours. The way his brilliant hockey mind never seemed to shut off, always analyzing, always planning. His excitement the first time I actually understood what he was talking about…

I swallowed hard and forced my attention back to the present. To the fond exasperation in Adele and Rae’s voices that wrapped around me like a warm blanket. So different from Malone’s sharp edges and even sharper ambitions. Here, relationships weren’t measured in followers or influence metrics. They just... were.

Steam rose from my cup in lazy spirals. The scent triggered an ambush of memory—Jack in my tiny Austin kitchen, drowning his coffee in Italian Sweet Cream creamer even as he denied contaminating his body with “processed shit”. The way he’d crowded me against the counter, his laugh rumbling against my neck when he’d silence my teasing in the best possible way...

I inhaled a small breath. Released. And smiled.

My phone buzzed, an incoming email from a potential client. Work. Thank God. Safe territory. I could do work.

“Earth to Lily!” Adele’s voice interrupted my return email a moment later. “You planning to actually drink that chai, or just commune with it spiritually?”

I lifted the cup in mock salute, careful to keep my expression neutral. “Some of us appreciate the artistry of proper beverage presentation.”

“Some of us are ridiculous.” But she grinned as she gathered her travel mug and pastry. “Ready to head out? Creed’s expecting us at ten.”

The mention of our next appointment shifted my focus. Time to forge ahead. To build something real here, brick by careful brick.

Even if—just for a second—when the morning light turned the world soft with optimism, I let myself wonder. If Jack were here, would he notice the way things just were here? No pretense, no manufactured moments, nothing needing a filter to feel real.

It seemed tailor-made for him.

But thinking that way lay madness. And I had a business to run.

“Just let me grab my laptop.” I stood, sliding back into strategy mode. Into the comfort of logistics and planning. “Did you remember to charge the backup batteries for the...”

As I rattled off the rest of my checklist my thoughts faded into the familiar rhythm of pre-production planning. Safe. Controlled.

I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel of our used production van, mapping out shooting angles in my head as we wound through the Three Corners region’s back roads. The vehicle had definitely seen better days—the air conditioning wheezed more than it cooled, and the suspension groaned over every pothole—but it was ours. No strings attached. No compromises required. My new motto.

“Turn left at the big oak,” Adele said without looking up from her tablet. “Creed’s place should be just past—holy mother of cars!”

The property unfolded before us; a gearhead’s paradise carved into the rolling foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Vintage muscle cars lined the lawn with military precision, chrome sparkling under the morning sunshine. Beyond them, the mist still clung to the tree line, softening the edges of the world, blurring the line between dream and reality. My fingers twitched for a camera.

Past the car lineup, a steel building rose clean and sharp against the peaceful backdrop. The contrast was striking—restoration and innovation standing shoulder to shoulder with something timeless.

I was already framing shots in my head. Morning light sliding over chrome, reflections shifting like liquid metal. Wide tracking shots to capture the way these racing classics stood against a horizon brushed in watercolor blues and greens. This was cinematic gold, the kind of setup that didn’t just look good—it felt like its own story waiting to be told. Like someone had dropped an automotive museum straight into a postcard, where precision and passion met the raw, untamed beauty of the land.

“This would be perfect for Marcus’s shoot.” Adele’s voice dropped low. “Remember that call yesterday? His team’s looking for locations for his new music video...”

“Let’s nail this job first.” I pulled the van to a stop, already mentally cataloging equipment needs. “If we impress Creed with the racing team promos, maybe he’ll consider letting us use the space for other projects.”

“About the budget...” She shuffled through papers, her nose wrinkling. “I ran the numbers again last night. If we stick to basic equipment for now—”

“We’re not compromising on quality.” The words came sharp, automatic. I inhaled a small breath. Released. Tried again. “Sorry. I just... we do this right or not at all.”

Movement caught my eye. A tall figure emerged from the shadows of the building—bald head gleaming in the sun, wide shoulders stretching the limits of a dirty t-shirt. Creed. We’d caught him in the middle of working by the looks of it.

“You found the place.” His voice gave nothing away, but I got the feeling he’d have been just as happy if we hadn’t.

I stepped out, professional mask sliding into place. “We did. We’re friends of Kyle Hossman, as I mentioned on the phone. He said you were looking for video work. We brought some samples…” I gestured to the tablet Adele waved. “Your place is gorgeous. I’m sure we could create something really special here.”

His eyes narrowed, assessing. One tattooed hand gestured toward the building. “Come see what you’re working with.”

The interior space stretched forever, classic cars in various stages of restoration lined up like soldiers. The space screamed passion and meticulous attention to detail. This wasn’t just a hobby—this was a car empire built on precision and perfection.

“I want footage of the restoration process,” he said, moving between pristine vehicles. “Racing team wants their own content. These would be separate projects.”

My producer brain kicked into gear, already breaking down shot lists and equipment requirements. This kind of work demanded excellence. One mistake and we’d never get another chance. But two gigs at one site? That would cut costs, making me hungrier than ever for the work.

“Did I see a track? You would want film there, right? We’ll need multiple setup days,” I said, keeping my voice professional. “Different lighting requirements for the garage versus track footage.”

He nodded once. Just once. But something in his posture shifted. “Hoss said you understand cars.”

“Only enough to know what details matter to the people who truly love them.”

Another slight nod. Progress, maybe.

We spent the next hour going over technical requirements. He answered our questions with the bare minimum of words, but his knowledge was encyclopedic. Every so often, Adele would catch my eye, glancing meaningfully at particularly photogenic corners of the space. The music video possibilities were endless, but that was a conversation for another day. I didn’t think we should push our luck today.

By the time we climbed back in the van, the sun had shifted toward afternoon. A hot breeze carried the scent of motor oil and possibility.

“That went... well?” Adele said as we pulled away. “I think? Hard to tell with him, but he didn’t kick us out.”

“He’s giving us a shot.” I kept my eyes on the road, not letting my mind drift to thoughts about other taciturn men I’d known. Men who’d kept their emotions locked down tight until you earned their trust. “Let’s make it count.”

She hummed agreement, but I could feel her watching me. Waiting for the walls to crack.

Not today, though. I lived with the constant regret of what I’d tossed away so carelessly, and I suspected that wouldn’t change in this lifetime. I had a Jack Vignier-sized hole in my heart.

But today? Today was about building something new. Looking forward.

Even if sometimes my heart forgot to let go of what was lost.

Long shadows crept across the old hardware store’s dusty windows as day faded into dusk. The familiar click-whir of hard drives and the hum of equipment filled our makeshift editing bay—a far cry from the high-end equipment we’d used in Austin, but infinitely more satisfying.

I leaned back in my chair, studying the footage from today’s youth hockey practice. Even through the viewfinder, Hoss’s passion for teaching shone through. The way he broke down complex moves into digestible pieces, his endless patience with wobbly skaters... My fingers flew across the keyboard, marking key moments for the promo piece.

“I think we’ve got it.” Adele’s voice drifted over from her workstation. “That transition you added really pulls it together.” She stretched, her back cracking. “Oh, before I forget—Riley mentioned Jack had his knee surgery last week.”

My fingers froze over the keys.

Long inhale. Small breath. Slow release.

I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to, to know that Adele’s eyes were on me, gauging my reaction. I wouldn’t give her one. Each word measured, controlled. Like discussing any other subject. Like my heart wasn’t trying to claw its way into my throat. “That’s... good.”

“Successful, apparently.” She kept her tone carefully neutral, but I could feel her watching. “Riley said he’s working with a top surgeon in Austin, some sports medicine specialist that’s all about pro athletes.”

I nodded, kept my eyes on my screen. Don’t ask. Don’t engage. But my traitorous mouth opened anyway. “Did Riley mention how he’s doing with recovery?”

“As expected.” Her voice softened. “Puppy says he’s driving everyone crazy, wanting to do more than he should.”

A familiar ache bloomed in my chest. That was Jack—all hyper drive and stubborn determination. A man who’d played through a serious cartilage tear just to give his team one last shot at the Cup. Who’d spend hours analyzing game tape, looking for any edge, any advantage…

No. Not going there. I rolled my lips, focused on the screen in front of me.

Focus. Work. I had deadlines to meet.

I threw myself back into the editing, but my mind kept drifting. Who was making sure he didn’t overdo it? Distracting him with coffee loaded with that ridiculous amount of creamer he refused to admit he loved so much...

Stop.

I forced my attention to our growing client board and the vision board Adele had insisted we create. Local businesses. Community projects. Authentic voices telling their own stories.

These small jobs would never trend on social media or win industry awards, but they represented honest work—the kind of storytelling that had made me fall in love with this career in the first place. The kind that finally let me sleep at night.

Respectable work. Work I would be proud to share with Jack.

I imagined him looking over my shoulder now, his chin dipping in approval at the youth hockey footage. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to pressing Adele to accept work for Hoss’s youth team. I’d wanted the connection to the sport Jack loved. It felt like a connection to him, even if only in my battered heart.

“Earth to Lily!” Adele’s voice cut through my spiral. “Where’d you go?”

I tapped my thumb against my wrist. “Just thinking about tomorrow’s shoot at the track. We should get there early, catch that morning light on the mountains...”

She nodded, but her eyes held understanding. “You know, it’s okay to miss him.”

“I’m fine.” The words came automatically. Lies. I’d never be fine again.

The sunset cast the mountains in shades of violet and gold, the kind of natural beauty that still caught me off guard. Below our window, the Three Corners evening crowd wandered between shops, their unhurried pace wildly different from the frenetic energy I’d known all my life.

My thoughts drifted back to the thumb drive I’d left in his locker that final morning. A final message he probably hadn’t watched—and why would he, after what I’d done? But I’d needed to leave it, needed him to have the option of knowing I’d finally found the courage to tell his story the right way. To do the right thing. Even if he never watched it. Even if I didn’t deserve his forgiveness, much less his understanding.

I hoped one day he understood that he’d taught me better. That I wanted to be a better person after knowing him. Even if I had to do it alone.

My phone buzzed—another local business inquiry. More honest work. The kind that wouldn’t make headlines but might actually matter to someone.

“Meet you at Sugar Squared again tomorrow?” Adele asked as she packed up her gear. “Rae’s testing new muffin recipes.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” I smiled, and this time it felt almost real.

The sun dipped behind the mountains, lighting the room in shades of possibility. Not the future I’d hoped for, maybe. But one I was finally brave enough to choose.

Even if sometimes, in moments like this—when the sunset painted the world in a plum and gold watercolor, when possibility hung thick as mountain mist—I caught myself wondering if Jack would understand why I’d left. Why I’d needed to remember who I was without the weight of compromise.

Why I’d had to learn to tell the right stories, even if it meant telling them without him.