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Chapter Three

Lily

Hockey Rule #7: Pain is temporary, pride is forever Media Rule #7: Suffering sells, vulnerability gets views

Scrambling back from the table, I called for one of my crew members to keep an eye on Bright. Not that my lazy cat would leave the comfort of his mat and water bowl. Assured of his well-being, I took off in the direction where Viggy’d disappeared.

I caught Adam’s eye as I wove through the crowd and flashed him a grin. He stood beside the woman wearing the cut-off jersey. He winked back at me, his goofy, contagious grin of a stark contrast to the stoic mask Viggy wore.

Vendors had set up folding table where people picked at burgers, but the real crowd had gathered at the pupsicle truck. Frozen treats and bacon bites for dogs drew a line twice as long as anything offering food for their owners.

I stepped between two trucks to find a row of saplings. The trees acted as a sort of demarcation between the vehicle accessible area and the tire-free grass. Viggy leaned against the back of one of the trucks, head down, shoulders sagging.

Something about his posture tugged at my heart. I took a deep breath and closed the distance between us. A twig snapped under my sandal and his head shot up, his gaze arrowing in on me, eyes tightening.

“Viggy,” I said, pushing the tremor out of my voice. “I just had an idea for the show. How would you feel about doing a special episode? On just you. Your final year. We could time it ahead of the playoffs—”

“Forget it.” He shoved away from the truck, squared up his shoulders, arms crossed over the broad width of his chest. His body language screamed “Get lost!”

I didn’t. I stepped closer.

He’d fought me every step of the way. From day one, he’d treated our crew like invaders in his carefully controlled kingdom. The Aces organization had fed me a line about their star captain—how he’d smooth things over, help integrate us with the team. “Viggy sets the tone,” they’d insisted. “The players follow his lead.”

And I’d done my homework. Compiled the stats. Mapped his influence. In every anonymous league survey, players ranked him at the top, and had for years now—most respected captain, strongest leader, best mentor. The numbers painted a clear picture of Jack Vignier’s impact on the game.

What those statistics failed to capture? His absolute genius at blocking anything—or anyone—he viewed as a threat to his team’s focus.

And today? That would be Unleashed . My crew. Me.

Injury reports drove our shooting schedule, shaped our story arcs. They figured heavily in our filming schedule. People loved to get the inside scoop. To glimpse beyond the jerseys, beyond the standard issue network broadcast. And injuries made the players real, humanized them. Fan favorites competing with a broken hand or a damaged ankle fed into the whole hockey players are the toughest athletes aura.

But an injury for the renowned captain? Heading into a serious playoff run? Heading into his last chance at the one achievement that trumped all others—the Stanley Cup?

Hello, headlines! Viral for days, weeks. Ratings even Mark Malone couldn’t ignore.

I searched Viggy’s face, wishing I could find a crack, knowing I wouldn’t. “Let me tell your story, Viggy. We can show people the real you, the man behind the jersey. I’m not trying to exploit you, I swear. People want to understand you. You’re already an icon in the league—”

He smirked, an unspoken challenge, and hackles spiked along the back of my neck. I’d had months of him avoiding one-on-one interviews and putting his back to the cameras. “I’m not asking for permission, Viggy. The organization already gave me a free pass. I’m just offering you a say in the narrative.”

His snort was short, sharp and laced with derision. Like a slap in the face. “A say?” His voice came at me in a low rumble, tapping against my nerve endings like a live wire. “You still think we’re going to follow some bullshit Hollywood script? That you can pull strings and we’ll all jump? You think I get to choose my ending? This is real life, Sutton. And in real life, the only narrative that matters is the one we write on the ice.”

He shifted away from the truck, his shoulder brushing mine, electricity arcing between us. I should have stepped back, created some distance. But my feet had grown roots.

Damn him. Damn me for letting him have this kind of affect on me, even after months of exposure.

The scent of cypress and sweat mingled, creating an unrelenting male assault on my senses. I mapped the line of his neck, the taut tendons disappearing beneath the damp cotton of his shirt. His skin glistened. My mouth went dry. Get a grip, girl. This wasn’t a moment to show weakness; this was a battle of wills. And I wouldn’t let him win.

I tilted my chin up and met his gaze full on. “You think Unleashed is nonsense? We show the players as they are, Viggy. Your episode would be no different. We’d show the real you.”

His eyes narrowed. “You think you know anything about the real me?” His low voice scraped against my defenses, dark and dangerous. “You’ve been here for what, seven-eight months? Like a damn vulture, waiting for my guys to crack. To catch it on film, earn you the ratings you’re so desperate for. Filming our practices, our games—” He waved his hand back toward the deck, the event. “—this PR bullshit. You think this gives you some sort of privileged insight? That you somehow understand the blood, sweat, and tears that go into my life? Don’t flatter yourself, Sutton.”

His glacial blue eyes locked onto mine, pinning me in place. Hell, they could freeze a puck mid-flight. I wanted to look away, to break the intensity of his stare, but I couldn’t. A bead of perspiration trailed along the small of my back. His gaze stripped away my mask, exposed the lingering insecurities, and dared me to lose my cool.

I rolled my lips and conjured up an image of Mark Malone. Of the media maelstrom when my career imploded on the lies told by my enemies. Thought of the sweet California bungalow I’d given up and everything else I’d lost three years ago. If going toe-to-toe with Jack Vignier got me one step closer to where I belonged, I was down for the fight.

“I know more than you think.” I tilted my chin up. “How’s the knee, Viggy?”

I took a gamble, tossing out my guess like a challenge. But the gamble paid off as his eyes darkened, his jaw tightened, and a vein popped at his temple. I’d hit a nerve.

He took a step closer, the heat of his body radiating against mine, my senses buzzing as he invaded my space. His breath feathered against my cheek. My skin tingled.

For a wild heartbeat, the crazy impulse to reach out my hand, to lay my fingers along the hard cut of his jaw, swamped me.

My fingers itched with the need to touch him, to trace the sharp blade of his jaw. The urge blindsided me—this desperate want to smooth away the tension etched around his mouth, to discover if his stubble would rasp against my palm as roughly as it looked. My hand lifted of its own accord, and for one electric moment I let myself imagine how his breath would catch if I gave in. How those ice-blue eyes might darken, might melt, if I dared to close the space between us.

The sound of a child’s laughter in the distance broke the spell and I clenched my fingers into a fist. My gaze snagged on a pale, crescent-shaped scar that marred the edge of his jaw, disappearing into the shadow of his dark stubble.

“You think you saw pain today? You saw nothing. You know nothing.” His tone reminded me that he was a god in a game that lauded brutality.

For a moment, I glimpsed the man behind the mask—vulnerable, hurt, but unrelentingly determined. As quickly as it appeared, the glimpse vanished and he turned away.

He strode around the corner of the food truck, those magnificent shoulders of his disappearing from view, but the electricity of his presence lingered on my skin like a brand. My fingers clamped around my wrist, my thumb digging into the frantic pulse hammering beneath the skin.

The sun beat down, but the heat that coiled low in my belly had nothing to do with the hot Texas weather. Damn him and that limp. Damn Jack Vignier and his mysteries. Just when I thought I had the man figured out, he threw me that tantalizing hint of vulnerability.

I lifted my face to the sun, matching its glare with one of my own.

Let him think his walls could keep me out. I hadn’t clawed my way back from career destruction by backing down from a challenge. Jack Vignier might excel at keeping people at arm’s length, but I specialized in breaching defenses. And that limp? That was my way in.