Page 5
Chapter Five
Lily
Hockey Rule #60: Protect your goalie Media Rule #60: Protect your sources
The group skills practice wrapped up and the players dispersed to work one-on-one with the coaches or hitting the weight room. The whir of the Zamboni echoed through the empty training facility. The scent of freshly resurfaced ice threatened to overpower my perfectly blended dirty chai. I dragged in a deep whiff of spiced vanilla before swallowing down a warm mouthful. Summer, spring, winter or fall, a hot, dirty chai gave me the armor I needed to face the world.
I wiggled on the bench, my left butt-cheek going numb from sitting too long in the same position. Officially, the Aces had assigned us a cramped conference room with stiff chairs and worse lighting. Unofficially, I worked wherever I could find a halfway decent signal and a place to sit.
Or a hard-as-granite bench that my butt would probably never recover from.
I wiggled again, but the bench didn’t get any softer. With a sigh, I sat my travel mug down beside me and pried open my laptop. Adele swore the thing would eventually fuse with my arm. “Just get a tablet like a normal person,” she’d said last week, right before proposing we film the players doing trending TikTok dances in full gear. “It’d be a riot!” I’d nixed that idea, but not without acknowledging that she could have convinced at least some of the guys to go along with her hare-brained ideas.
I opened my notes document. This morning’s practice yielded an interesting tidbit—an offhand remark from my interview with Jabari Flint that stuck with me. He’d worked for the Aces the organization for years, starting out as one of the equipment guys before earning a degree in athletic training.
The trainer’s insights over the season painted vivid pictures of the team dynamics, delivered with his megawatt smile and zero agenda. His perspective gave our raw footage heart. Showed the human beings beneath the jerseys.
So when I asked about playoff prep, I expected his usual level-headed take. Everyone else in this building had already gone off the rails. I couldn’t cross the dining room without hearing the kitchen staff arguing about power play formations. The front office had a full-blown bracket taped to the copier, complete with odds on beard growth. Even the maintenance crew was trading stats in the hallway, convinced the Aces could steamroll Chicago in the first round.
Playoff fever infected every corner of this 70,000 square foot hockey shrine. And they looked at me like I was the crazy one!
My last project had been up for three Emmys. I understood anticipation. But this? This was next level fanaticism.
“He’s a warrior.” The trainer’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper when I asked about Viggy. “The things he’s played through…you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Like what?” I leaned closer, my nosy storyteller curiosity on high alert.
“You know he played game seven back in ‘21 with broken ribs? A punctured lung?”
I winced. I’d heard about Viggy’s injuries, but hearing confirmation from someone who’d witnessed the game made the story more real. “How is that possible? Let alone legal?”
“Legal?” Jabari shrugged, eyes wide. “Debatable. But you have to understand the adrenaline and focus that come with playing these high stakes games. Guys like Viggy? They block it all out. The world narrows down to the ice, the puck and the next goal. Nothing else matters.”
Lines etched into his brow. My fingers tightened around my recorder. To play through that kind of pain? Unimaginable.
“He must have felt something,” the trainer continued, his gaze drifting back to where Viggy ran solo, puck-handling in the far corner of the rink. “He had to have felt something , right? But with his drive, that warrior mindset, I guess he was able to block the pain out. Until medical took him to the hospital.”
A wry smile twisted his lips, admiration warring with something darker. “He never let on. Not a word until we had the game in the bag, and the buzzer sounded on a win. He’s the best captain I’ve ever seen, but the man plays by his own rules.”
A sharp crack shattered the memory. Through the plexi, Viggy’s slap shot veered wide—too wide for a guy who could usually thread a puck through traffic with his eyes closed. His jaw tensed, and even from up here, I could picture the muscle jumping along the edge. That micro-shift. The kind actors spend hours trying to mimic, chasing authenticity in trailer mirrors under bad lighting. Viggy didn’t need rehearsal. The pain was real. Controlled, but not as hidden as he might hope.
He'd worn the same expression when he disappeared behind the food truck up at Lady Bird Lake.
My thumb tapped against my wrist.
The limp I’d caught that day—barely there, quick as a blink—clicked into focus. Not something I saw at the rink. Not something he let the team see. But I’d seen it. The weight shift. The off-balance favoring of one leg, smoothed over before anyone else could notice. And then Jabari’s voice, tight and cautious, looping back in.
Jack was hurt. Playing through something serious. The kind of career-defining injury that could make or break my show—and my heart squeezed at how easily my mind had gone there first. To ratings, instead of the man.
His hostility when I’d pushed for details made brutal sense now. Jabari’s stories of past injuries painted a picture of a warrior who’d sacrifice everything for his team. A man who’d rather let his body break than show weakness. The man played through punctured lungs and cracked ribs, chose breaking over bending every time. He guarded his vulnerability like a dragon guarded gold.
And God help me, my producer brain lit up at the story potential. Jack’s career was the stuff of legends. Sports networks would salivate at the idea of telling his story—the kind of story that could deliver the knockout ratings Malone demanded. But if Viggy shut me out, blocked me like he had all season, the episode would crater. Sure, I could cobble together teammate interviews, weave in commentary from rival players, but it wouldn’t be the same. Far from it.
My stomach clenched as Sydney’s betrayal crashed through my memories. How my former assistant had ripped off my concepts, branded me a fraud, then watched me spiral into professional exile with a smile on her perfectly glossed lips. My fingers dug into my wrist, pressing hard enough to leave marks as the past threatened to drown me.
Three years of having my name whispered in production meetings like a cautionary tale, of watching lesser talent claim the opportunities I’d earned, of dying inside every time I had to explain the “gap in my resume” only to be turned down for the job again and again.
Memories flashed in my mind’s eye. Industry leaders turning their backs on me, emails going unanswered, colleagues avoiding me—the barrage was burned into my subconscious, never to be forgotten. Humiliation, embarrassment, confusion. Desperation . I’d clawed my way back from career death, done the impossible by getting any kind of show at all. I couldn’t afford to deliver anything less than excellence.
But I understood Viggy’s resistance. He hated even the idea of being in the spotlight. He’d see the show as exactly what he despised about Aces Unleashed already—manufactured drama packaged for mass consumption.
A player’s laugh echoed up from the tunnel to my left, bouncing off concrete walls before dying in the cavernous practice space. I shifted on the hard bench seat, tucking one leg beneath me as I glanced around. A couple of players and staff clustered near the rink entrance, their voices a distant hum of speculation and strategy. None close enough to see my screen, which suited me fine.
I popped in my earbuds and pulled up today’s footage. We had cameras in the training room and the locker room, strategically angled to respect privacy around areas like the showers. Some of our best material came from these casual moments when players forgot about the recording equipment. Their unfiltered conversations frequently yielded pure gold for the show.
I doubled the playback speed, zooming through the footage. Adam Riley came into view. He was in the locker room, hovering over the bench beside Viggy, his usual puppy-dog energy muted to something more watchful.
Interesting.
I hit rewind, let the footage play at normal speed. Viggy sat shirtless, facing the camera. My gaze snagged on the play of muscles beneath his tanned skin, the way they shifted as he unlaced his skates. On the white scar that cut across the top of his shoulder—a battle wound from some long-ago game? The mark did nothing to diminish his raw masculine power.
Heat pooled low in my belly. Those careful, controlled movements of his hands on the laces...God, what would they feel like skating across my skin? Years of dedication had sculpted that broad chest and those shoulders, but the quiet intensity in his face truly drew me in. His jaw clenched slightly as he concentrated, the subtle flex of muscle there making my fingers itch to trace along that strong line.
I’d seen my fair share of athletic bodies over the last eight months. But Jack Vignier? He hit differently. Maybe it was how the power in his frame tempered with that edge of vulnerability in unguarded moments. Or how his presence filled a room without him ever raising his voice. Whatever it was, it called to something primal in me, my skin too tight, thoughts scattering in dangerous directions.
I wrenched my gaze away. I was here to tell a story, not drool over the six-foot-two slab of hockey-playing perfection.
A six-foot-two slab of perfection who wanted me to disappear as much as he wanted to touch me.
And he wanted to touch me. I hadn’t lived this long without recognizing when a man wanted me. But he hadn’t acted on the attraction and I darn sure wouldn’t either. Too much rode on this series for me to risk it for a man, no matter his perfection.
Riley stood beside his gym bag in a towel and nothing more. His unscarred, wiry frame drew a stark contrast to Viggy’s battle-forged mass. “No?” He hailed out a pair of tighty-whitey underwear. “What about a tattoo, then? Maybe she has a thing for tattoos. Maybe I should get one. Something big and badass like Rempel has all over his back.”
Viggy grunted in the video, tugging at a stubborn knot in his laces. “Kid, a tattoo is not gonna help you with that woman.”
My lips pulled into a grin. Not so fast, Viggy. Adele would love a tattoo.
Riley plopped down on the bench, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Then what, Cap? I’ve tried everything.”
Viggy gave a sharp shake of his head. “Scrounge up another ten years and she might give you the time of day.”
Viggy hit the nail on the head. My bestie was well aware of the rookie’s crush, but she’d never had a thing for younger guys. And Adam screamed puppy. Happy, playful puppy. Not her style at all. Poor guy was barking up the wrong tree.
But Viggy’s delivery of that news was savage. Honest, but without his usual panache.
Adam’s shoulders slumped. Poor dude. He looked like he needed a pet. A good scratch behind the ear to soften the blow.
Viggy’s head snapped up, blue eyes piercing through the camera and straight into my soul. Jesus. Electricity jolted through my chest, my heart lodging somewhere near my tonsils. For a split second, heat flooded my cheeks like he could actually see me here, watching him, wanting him—
A phone chirped, shattering the moment. Thank God. His scowl could have melted steel as he twisted away, broad shoulders blocking the camera’s view while he dug through his locker. That magnificent back rippled with barely contained power, and wasn’t that just perfect? Even his retreat screamed controlled strength, leaving me breathless and off-balance.
Get it together, Sutton. He couldn’t actually see through the camera. The flutter in my stomach was pure imagination mixed with dangerous levels of attraction. But those blue eyes haunted me, fierce and knowing, like he’d caught me red-handed ogling players.
Player. Singular. Only Jack Vignier tempted me to forget everything I had riding on this show.
I zipped through the rest of the locker room footage, sending a few timestamps to Unleashed ’s editor holed up in the conference room, before packing up for the day.
Just then, Curtis Mackenzie popped out of the tunnel, caught sight of me and bee-lined my way. He dropped onto the bench to my left.
“I’m hiding,” he said, his voice low, conspiratorial. “And if you rat me out, Sutton, we’re gonna have a big problem.” He winked, his blue eyes twinkling.
The Aces Unleashed crew were like visitors who’d long overstayed their welcome. Some folks had grown accustomed to our presence; others had zero tolerance. Coach Mack fell somewhere in between.
“What’re you hiding from?”
“Someone left a three-legged iguana in my office.” He widened his eyes dramatically. “Don’t get me wrong. I think an iguana is exactly what my office needed. But I can’t help but wonder…Where is it going to the bathroom? The idea of it taking a shit on my desk won’t leave me alone.”
I laughed. “Whitney had the iguana Saturday. Did he end up adopting it?”
“No idea.” He ran a hand over his smooth, bald head. “But someone thinks they’re being funny, and I don’t want to let on that it’s freaking me out. Once my brain fixed on the bathroom issue, I couldn’t shake it. I’m currently pretending to be unfazed. The guys need to relax this time of year. I’m good with being the butt of their joke if it gets them out of their head for a minute.”
“Since you’re here, mind if I ask you some questions?”
He turned to straddle the bench, one leg cocked higher than the other, then groaned. “Somehow this was a lot more comfortable when I was younger.” He twisted around until he had two feet on the floor in front of him again and gave me a wave. “Fire away. But go easy on me, Sutton. Remember, I’m dealing with an iguana invasion and its nearly playoff season. My nerves are this close” —he held his index and thumb a half-inch apart —"to being shot.”
I tossed him a grin as I dug my recorder out of my bag. “Just a couple quick questions about the team’s mindset heading into these last games. What’s the mood in the locker room?”
He leaned back, turning to take in the empty ice, a faint smile on his lips. “We’re focused, determined. But we’re also trying to keep things loose, you know? Playoffs are a marathon, not a sprint. We’ve gotta pace ourselves.” He sobered for a moment. “Easier said than done with a bunch of guys who are wired to go full throttle, twenty-four seven.”
The ancient bench creaked as I shifted, buying time to frame my next question just right. “Viggy seems to have a calming influence on them.” The observation rolled off my tongue casual as can be. My fingers found the touchpad, rewinding footage of Viggy yet again, like a moth drawn to flame.
God, the way he moved through that footage. Pure authority in every stride, leadership written in the set of those broad shoulders. If I could just focus on analyzing his captain’s presence instead of remembering how it felt to be pinned by those blue eyes...
Please, Coach, take the bait. Give me something real about Jack Vignier, something beyond the controlled facade that made my pulse skip every time he entered a room. Something to explain how he wielded silence like a superpower, drawing everyone into his orbit without even seeming to try.
MacKenzie nodded at the video, his smile widening when Adam Riley started talking about a tattoo. “Riley’s got it bad, doesn’t he? Adele’s a good sport.”
When he looked up to meet my gaze, his eyes held pride and a hint of something less definable. “Viggy’s the heart of this team,” he said, his voice full of respect for the veteran player. “He leads by example. Doesn’t need to be vocal. He just lets his expectations be known. And let me tell you, I was a little intimidated when I first came to the team. But I get it now. The guys would plow through a wall for him. Hell, I’d plow through a wall for him.”
“He’s been playing for a lot of years. That’s got to take a toll on a man’s body.”
MacKenzie’s smile turned brittle, tiny brackets forming around his mouth and coldness creeping into his usually cheerful blue eyes. “By this time of the year, every player’s got bumps and bruises. It’s part of the game. Viggy’s a tough son of a gun with a good head on his shoulders. He knows how to manage his body.”
His words were at once a dismissal and a warning. I’d seen the vaunted “hockey culture” or “culture of toughness” in action. Players pushed through discomfort, shook off a hard hit. But I’d caught the flicker of concern in the coach’s eyes. The way his smile turned strained at the corners. Viggy was hurting.
“Thanks, Coach,” I said, my voice softer than intended. I cleared my throat and continued. “That’ll do for now.”
I packed up and made my way through the rabbit warren of hallways to the suite of offices assigned to the Unleashed crew. Most of my crew lounged in the small conference room, hunched over their electronics, creating our masterpiece. I slipped into the closet-sized office I shared with Adele. She sat at her desk, phone glued to her hand as she scrolled through the socials.
I’d never dealt with a subject so resistant to being filmed. The Aces organization had practically thrown open their doors, seeing Unleashed as their golden ticket to fan engagement and social media dominance. The players took more convincing, even with the cooperation clause buried in their contracts.
But most of them came around. Hell, some of them had turned into regular social media darlings, loving the attention, the fan interaction. All except Viggy. He saw my crew as a threat, vultures circling overhead, ready to descend on the first sign of weakness…
My stomach dipped and rolled. I loved working in non-fiction storytelling—was fighting tooth and nail to rebuild my career ever since Sydney’s betrayal. But exploiting Viggy’s vulnerability for a special episode? I’d be confirming everything he already thought about me. He’d see it as a betrayal, a violation.
I needed a sounding board, someone to help me sort the mess in my head. How smart was I to hire my best friend?
“Adele?”
She glanced up from her phone, her eyes crinkling around the corners as she grinned. “Hey, what’s up?”
I crossed the space to lay my laptop on the table I’d claimed as my desk, my stomach churning with what I was about to suggest. “Pick your brain for a minute?”
Adele spun her chair around, her usual sparkle dimming as she caught my expression. “You’ve got that look. The one that says you’re about to do something either brilliant or terrible.”
“Maybe both.” My fingers found their spot on my wrist, counting heartbeats while I gathered courage. “Malone’s been pushing for something bigger, you know? With that dead week coming up before playoffs...” I swallowed hard. “I thought maybe we could do a special episode. About Jack.”
“Jack now, is it?” Adele’s eyebrows shot up. “Not Viggy?”
Heat crawled up my neck. “That’s not—I mean—” I dropped into my chair, the ancient springs protesting. “He’s playing injured, Del. Like, seriously injured.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. They’re all held together with tape and prayers this time of year.” She waved her phone, showing me yet another ‘hockey players are built different’ meme. “It’s basically their whole brand.”
“This is different.” The words scraped my throat raw. “His knee... I’ve been watching the footage. Over and over. It’s bad, Del. Really bad.”
Understanding dawned in her eyes. “And Malone would love that juicy little detail, wouldn’t he? Turn the iron man into some tragic figure? The mighty captain brought low?”
My stomach rolled. Because she wasn’t wrong. Malone would take Jack’s struggle and twist it into something cruel. Something designed to trend on social media rather than honor the man’s dedication.
“What am I doing?” I pressed my thumb harder against my pulse point. “Am I really considering exposing Jack’s vulnerability just to please Malone? To save my own career?” Bile burned the back of my throat. “I’m turning into Sydney, aren’t I? Ready to sacrifice someone else’s dignity for a few rating points?”
“Hey.” Adele rolled her chair closer, her hand covering mine. “You’re nothing like that snake. The fact that you’re even worried about it proves that.”
But the guilt churned in my gut, mixing with something that felt dangerously like betrayal. Because I’d seen Jack when he thought no one was watching. Seen him fight through pain that would level a normal person. Seen his quiet determination to give everything for his team.
And here I sat, plotting to turn that dedication into entertainment.
“I keep telling myself I could handle it differently,” I whispered. “Show his strength instead of his weakness. His leadership. But Malone...” My voice cracked. “You know what he’ll want. The drama. The controversy. He’ll take Jack’s story and turn it into some twisted cautionary tale about pride and stubbornness.”
“So don’t let him.”
“You know it’s not that simple.”
The weight of compromise settled on my shoulders like lead. Because it wasn’t simple. Nothing about Jack Vignier was simple—especially not the way my heart raced every time he was near. The way I wanted to protect him even while considering exposing his most vulnerable moments for the world to see.
God, I was such a hypocrite.