Page 7
Chapter Seven
Lily
Hockey Rule #20: Play through the whistle Media Rule #20: Cut for maximum impact
The first drops of rain hit as we rounded the corner, still a block away from my apartment. The air crackled with a heady mix of tension and anticipation—and none of it related to the weather.
Beside me, Viggy walked in silence, his long strides eating up the pavement. No sign of the limp from Saturday. Maybe the hitch in his stride had been a fleeting thing, a momentary blip in the life of a hockey player. Or maybe, like so much else in his life, he’d learned to conceal the truth.
I stole a glance at him, my gaze tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, the high planes of his cheekbones. The sidewalk narrowed, and as we quickened our pace to outrun the rain, his shoulder brushed mine, sending a jolt of electricity straight through me. My pulse wooshed in my ears, as loud as the wind whipping around us.
The reality of the evening slammed into me and I dug my fingers into the straps of Bright’s backpack. Seeing Viggy in the bar, sharing a real conversation with him, might be the highlight of my season. The conversation—unguarded, honest—felt like a turning point. Like our relationship—I silently snorted—had shifted. Turned intimate, real. In a direction we’d carefully avoided all season.
Electricity hummed between us from the moment we’d met, unspoken but undeniable. The feeling thickened tonight. Charged by the storm brewing overhead, or the secrets spoken in the patio bar?
He refused to stay in the little box in my head labeled “Hockey Player”. Instead, fresh facets of his personality—facets that refused categorization, despite my best efforts—drew me in even as I pushed against the attraction.
I’d heard plenty of Viggy tales from seasons gone by in my time embedded with the team. Of Viggy’s easygoing nature, his camaraderie with his teammates and staff. But this season, the man I’d met? He was different. Not just toward me, but toward the team, too. My camera crew had caught more than enough footage of players sending him baffled looks. Remote, gruff, distant. These were the hallmarks of Viggy’s last season.
I thought of Riley, the way the rookie trailed after him. Ever hopeful, determined to have Viggy’s attention.
Viggy’s gruffness hadn’t been about distance for its own sake. It was armor. An effort to make this final season bearable. Keep everyone at arm’s length, and maybe it would hurt less when the locker room, the routines, the bonds that built his adult life all disappeared when he hung up his skates for the last time.
But I’d seen glimpses of the vulnerable man beneath the gruff exterior tonight. This wasn’t just about a battered knee or even stepping down. This was about a man staring into the abyss of “what comes next?” and finding nothing but shadows.
Yeah, a bum knee would have been a headline. A captain stepping down at the pinnacle of his career, that was a story, too. But this—the story of a man losing his identity? Of facing an uncertain future with a mix of fear, defiance and questionable decisions?
I knew that terror. That suffocating panic when everything you’d built your life around gets ripped away. The way your mind spins in circles at 3 AM, trying to figure out who you are when the familiar rules don’t apply anymore.
That could be a story that resonated with people. The world was a scary place. People liked knowing they weren’t alone in the chaos.
Malone would scoff if I pitched this angle. “Too soft,” he’d say, probably while wearing those ridiculous Italian loafers that cost more than my rent. “Where’s the controversy? The drama?”
But I knew better. I knew in my bones this was the story that needed telling. Because somewhere out there, someone else was facing their own identity crisis, their own uncertain future. They needed to see they weren’t alone in that struggle.
It’d certainly resonated with me. I’d shared my feelings about what happened three years ago with exactly one person: Adele. But I’d been this close to spilling my personal drama to Jack. To telling him about my own scars. About the betrayal that rocked my faith in people, shattered the ground beneath my feet, and sent me into hiding for years.
“Looks like the rain is really going to unleash any minute.”
I snorted. “Are you making a pun? Grouchy, grumpy Jack Vignier is making a pun?”
Wind whipped through the air, turning fat raindrops into stinging bullets against my cheeks, my bare arms and legs.
“You wanna call me names, or do you want to get out of this rain?”
Another fat drop splatted against my cheek. “I guess we better hurry.” Bright, tucked away in his pack and protected from the weather, let out a disgruntled meow as my gait jostled him. His whine cut through the rising wind. “You shush in there,” I said over my shoulder. “You’re not even getting wet. You aren’t allowed an opinion.”
Viggy’s chuckle curled through me, and we picked up the pace, heading for the entrance of my apartment building. I fumbled with my passcode at the lobby door even as the sky unleashed— har, har, pun intended . The downpour soaked me through in an instant. Despite the warm day, a chill swept over me.
Viggy hovered at my side, his body putting off a kind of heat that turned my thoughts to static. My fingers fumbled over the worn metal buttons.
“Hurry it up, Sutton.” His voice carried that gravelly edge that made my skin prickle. “Not getting any drier over here while you play around.”
I chewed my lower lip. “I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying.”
He shifted slightly, stepping close enough to make a tent with his hoodie over our heads, shielding me from the downpour. The gesture was so unexpectedly gentle it stole my breath. Rain drummed against the fabric, his chest a solid wall of warmth along my arm, my shoulder. My pulse thundered in my ears at the combination of his nearness within the intimate cocoon of the hoodie.
The harsh security lights above cut through the rain, casting long shadows as I punched the code in again. With each failure, he inched closer. His breath warmed my cheek. The rise and fall of his chest pressed into me. Too close. Too much.
“Fuck.” The word came out rough, barely audible over the storm. His hands flexed against the wall beside the key panel. “You’re shaking.”
I was—but not from the cold. Having him this close scattered my thoughts, made it impossible to focus on anything except the solid strength of him curved around me.
Bright yowled his protest from his backpack, reminding me I had one job—get us inside. I shook out my hands, willing them to cooperate. Just punch in four simple numbers. Don’t think about Jack’s chest barely brushing my side as he held the hoodie over me. Don’t think about how easy it would be to lean into that solid warmth. Don’t think about…
Oh hell, I was in so much trouble.
Jack chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated the air around us. “What’s his problem?”
I mangled the keycode again, groaned silently, and reached behind me to pat Bright’s pack. To reassure my cat or myself, I wasn’t sure. But my fingers swept over Jack’s belly instead of the backpack. He tensed at my touch, sucking in a sharp breath.
I jerked my hand back, clenched my fingers into a fist, my cheeks burning under the darkness of his hoodie shield. Finally, I punched in the right code, hyper-aware of his proximity, how his muscles tensed with each movement I made.
The lock clicked, and his exhale stirred my rain-dampened hair at my temple. Four hundredth time for the win. The little electronic buzz sounded and the door unlocked.
“Inside. Now.” The command held more growl than words, his hands settling on my hips under the backpack to guide me through the door. Even that brief touch felt charged, dangerous.
Icy water trailed down my arms as Viggy stepped into the lobby behind me. He shrugged out of his soaked hoodie, his short dark hair plastered to his forehead. He watched me, his gaze hooded and hiding his thoughts. The air sparked with a tension that had nothing to do with the storm outside.
I couldn’t send him back out in the rain. He already thought I was the worst thing since burnt toast. I should just let him go. Suggest he call for a rideshare.
And could I handle even another second in his company?
My attraction was a strange thing. Despite being surrounded by the best the NHL had to offer, only one player both rubbed my temper raw and set my heart to pounding. Even with the stolen glances I’d caught from Viggy, he’d never acted on them. He’d never relented in his assertion that my mere presence—the mere existence of the Unleashed show—negatively impacted the Aces.
Maybe he represented a challenge.
Maybe I was a glutton for punishment.
Maybe I saw the fall coming and stepped closer anyway.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t my head making the decisions tonight.
“I’m on the third floor.” The words came out breathless, despite my best intentions to sound casual. I moved toward the elevator on shaky legs, reminded myself to focus on being a decent human being and not turn Jack Vignier into a piece of man candy.
I glanced back, meaning to make sure he was following, but oh sweet mercy... His rain-soaked shirt clung to every ridge and plane of his chest, the harsh overhead lights turning the wet fabric nearly transparent. His broad shoulders, his narrow waist—I yanked my thoughts back from that dangerous path. He needed to get dry, that’s all. I couldn’t let him go back out in this storm without protection, now could I?
“Come upstairs.” I aimed for practical, friendly even, but my voice came out husky and invitation-laden. Heat flooded my cheeks. “I mean—I can throw your clothes in the dryer. Until the storm passes. That’s all.”
His eyes darkened to midnight blue, making my stomach do a slow flip. The way he looked at me—like he could see right through my attempt at being sensible—made my skin tingle with dangerous possibilities.
Oh god, what was I doing? This was about being a good person, not about how Jack Vignier’s rain-slicked presence made my pulse race. I just needed to get him dry. Nothing more. Even if every cell in my body screamed for something else entirely.
He hesitated, his gaze lingering on mine, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “My place is just the other side of Dick’s.”
He turned to leave and my heart plummeted.
“Jack, don’t be stubborn.” I stepped closer, caught in the undertow of his presence, the pull of him stronger than my own will. The air between us thrummed with awareness, a silent current that crackled like a live wire. He had to feel it. He had to.
But I wouldn’t sleep with him. I wouldn’t.
I just couldn’t let him leave, not in the middle of a storm. I mean, being polite mattered, right? We’d turned a corner tonight. There could be a friendship brewing between us. Minus the insane attraction part. “Just let me toss your hoodie and shirt in the dryer. It’ll take a few minutes, at most.”
He hesitated another long moment, then nodded, sharp, quick. “Alright,” he muttered, running a hand through his wet hair, sending droplets flying. “I’ll give it a few minutes. See if this weather doesn’t let up.”
Relief, sweet and overwhelming, washed over me. “I bet it does.” My voice came out a little too sparkly, a little too eager beaver.
We took the elevator up to the third floor in silence. I pulled my keycard from my purse, turning it over and over in my hand as we approached my apartment.
We moved down the hall to my door where I swiped my card, the electronic buzz of the lock loud in the silence between us. And open on the first try!
“After you, Captain.” I gestured him inside with an expansive wave that hopefully masked how my heart hammered against my ribs. Real smooth, Lily. Nothing says ‘completely casual’ like overly theatrical hand gestures.
He moved inside, all six-foot-two of coiled power and intoxicating mass. His shoulder brushed mine as he passed, sparks skittering across my skin at the brief contact.
The entrance hall shrank, Viggy filling the space. Rain dripped from his hair, traced paths down his neck my fingers itched to follow. His scent—clean rain mixed with something darker, more dangerous—flooded my senses. Pure male. Pure Jack. My head spun, thoughts scattering.
I turned to trail behind him, my eyes on the back of his head as he took in my apartment.
Oh god, my apartment. I hadn’t exactly planned for company when I’d left this morning.
We passed my bedroom and—crap!
Clothes piled atop a dresser, this morning’s coffee mug still on the bedside table, and was that yesterday’s script notes scattered across my unmade bed? Real professional, Sutton. I lunged for the door handle, slamming it closed before he could get an eyeful of Hurricane Lily’s latest disaster zone.
The hall opened to my sad excuse for a living space—basically a kitchen with no pretensions of being more. The island that played multiple roles as prep space, dining table, and occasional desk somehow seemed smaller with Jack’s massive frame dominating the area. My tiny apartment had never felt quite so... tiny.
The space between us crackled with possibilities, with all the ways this could implode. But standing here, battling between desire and discipline, I couldn’t remember why any of those reasons mattered. Not when every cell in my body screamed to close the distance, to discover if he tasted like rain and lightning and barely leashed power.
Then something shifted in his stance—that same calculated restraint I’d seen him deploy countless times on the ice taking over. His shoulders rolled back, jaw unclenching. The captain’s mask sliding back into place, though the heat in his eyes betrayed just how thin that control ran.
“Nice place.” His voice came out steady, controlled—but the slight roughness beneath his words sent heat to pool in my belly. I shook off the feeling, spun away to catch my breath and offered a half-laugh that sounded almost natural.
“It’s super tiny. But I have what I need. Adele calls it ‘cozy’.” Because my friend lived a glass-half-full kind of life.
I moved deeper into the apartment, hyper-aware of Jack following at a careful distance, like he’d calculated exactly how many steps to maintain between us. A hard swallow did nothing to ease my dry throat. Though I barely spent time here compared to the Aces Performance Center, the apartment’s confines had never bothered me until this moment. Malone’s company paid me a stipend for rent and food. After my forced time off, I needed to pinch pennies in the worst way. I couldn’t afford a fancy apartment; this tiny one bedroom served my purposes.
But with six hundred square feet and not an inch more, it meant limited storage. Meant that the dirty dishes from this morning sitting on the countertop stood out like a sore thumb. The yoga mat laying on the floor—because, surely, if I left it in sight, I would eventually use it, right?—along with the crumpled-up throw blanket and socks I’d left on the loveseat. Normal chaos in my world, but having Jack here made every imperfection stand out like a spotlight had suddenly clicked on.
I needed to get his shirt off him—for purely practical reasons, of course. Toss it and the hoodie in the dryer, just like any friend would offer. Maybe find an umbrella, though I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used one. Anything to keep my mind off how his rain-dampened t-shirt clung to those broad shoulders, or the way his eyes tracked my movements with predatory focus.
But right now, I couldn’t even bring myself to look at him.
Bright meowed and I shuddered with relief at having something to do that didn’t start with “Get Jack Naked”. I sat Bright’s pack on the arm of the loveseat, unzipped it, and watched as my feline emerged in a poof of disgruntled, white fluff. He stretched languidly over the throw pillows, before jumping to the back of the little couch. His gaze landed on Viggy, and his ears flattened against his head. With his smooshed-in face and flattened ears, he looked comically round. A grumpy, round fluffball.
“Huh.”
At Viggy’s low grunt, I finally turned to face him. His gaze hung on my cat, a half-grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t mind Bright,” I said. “He’s allergic to people.”
Then, as if to mock my words, Bright leapt down to the floor to do figure eights around my feet.
“Not all people.”
I rolled my lips, resisting the urge to grin. “I operate the can opener.”
Viggy chuckled, the sound reverberating through my apartment like a bass drum, easing the knot in my belly. Some of his raw intensity bled away as he glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the single small bookcase, my prized Amy movie poster that filled the only available wallspace.
Small and pretty bare, all things considered. I refused to feel embarrassed. Viggy probably had one of those swanky condos with floor-to-ceiling windows and a dedicated media room. The kind of place I’d been headed for before Sydney torpedoed my career and sent me into a three-year exile.
No. I squared my shoulders, shoving away the familiar sting of what-ifs. This was my space. I’d carved it out of nothing, just like I was rebuilding my career from scratch.
“Okay.” My voice came out squeaky, and I cleared my throat. “Give me your shirt, Jack.”
He turned to face me, all rippling muscle and rain-damp skin, and my brain short-circuited. Holy mother of—
“Wait!” I threw up my hands like I was directing traffic. “Just... wait right there. Don’t move. Or do move. Whatever’s more comfortable. I’ll get you a towel.” My gaze dropped to his chest, then snapped back up to safer territory. “For your hair. And... you know. Everything else.”
I bolted for the bathroom before I could embarrass myself further, my cheeks burning. Smooth, Sutton. Real smooth. Nothing says “professional distance” like literally running away from a shirtless hockey player.
In the safety of my bathroom, I pressed my forehead against the cool door and tried to remember how to breathe. What kind of masochist was I, inviting temptation incarnate into my apartment? And why did he have to look so damn good wet?