Page 8

Chapter Eight

Viggy

Hockey Rule #23: Take the hit to make the play Media Rule #23: Avoid controversy unless it trends

Lily stalked out of the bathroom, a crumpled navy towel clutched tight to her chest. Pink crept up her cheeks, and her blue-green eyes flicked everywhere—anywhere—but toward me. Like looking my way might be a mistake. The towel shifted with each step, swinging in time with the subtle sway of her rounded hips.

Just as she reached me, a flash of white darted off the couch. The cat dashed between her ankles before disappearing around the corner into the hall.

“Bright, no—!”

She tripped, arms windmilling as her balance disappeared and she pitched forward.

Instinct kicked in. The same instinct that had me jumping in front of pucks for a living. I lunged forward, caught her before she hit the floor. One arm under her knees, one supporting her back.

Soft curves. Bare skin. Heat.

Shit. I’d picked her up.

Why the hell had I picked her up?

A jolt snapped through my arms, ricocheted into my chest, set my pulse hammering. She fit too well, like she belonged there, like my arms had been waiting for her exact weight, her exact warmth. The scent of her hair curled around me, intoxicating, inescapable. Orange chased with cinnamon, my new favorite scents. My fingers flexed. Skin like silk under my hands.

Fuck.

Let her go, idiot.

Gritting my teeth, I set her down, slow, steady, like that might stop the ground from tilting beneath me. She tipped her head back, her gaze locking onto mine. A storm churned in her eyes—blues and greens clashing, pupils blown wide.

A warning.

A dare.

Recognition slammed into my ribs like a body check, stole the breath from my lungs.

Say something, Vignier. Break this tension before you do something stupid.

But my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth even as rainwater trickled down my neck, traced along the over sensitized skin of my collarbone. Each drop left a cold, biting path on my skin. Water dripped onto her carpet, and still she clutched that damn towel like a lifeline.

Then, she pushed a smile to her lips—weak, stiff around the edges. Not the one that turned heads, lit up rooms, left a path of wreckage in its wake. No, this smile didn’t even reach her eyes.

A knot pulled tight in my gut, deep, gnawing away at my insides. Because Lily Sutton’s smile was never just a smile—it was a weapon, a spotlight, a challenge. It could level a room, flip a script, throw a guy so far off his game he forgot he was even playing.

But this one? Lily was barely holding it together.

Christ. The knot pulled tighter. I didn’t like the storm in her gorgeous eyes.

She got under my skin with her smile—the real one. The one that didn’t ask for attention but commanded it anyway, that made people want to be near her without knowing why. And her mind. She never missed a damn thing—every flicker of hesitation, every tell, every crack in my armor.

She’d proven that out at the lake, following me behind the food trucks, calling me on my moment of weakness.

And here she was, standing in front of me, when my defenses had gone to shit.

Heat still lingered in my palms, seared into my skin like an afterimage. I stepped back, but the imprint of her weight stayed locked in my muscles, phantom and real all at once. The air in her apartment felt too still, too charged, the walls pressing in on all sides.

I could already see how this played out. At the lake, she’d asked to do the episode about me—I shut that down fast. So now she said she was covering Coach Mack instead. But that didn’t change her end goal.

Aces Unleashed chased ratings.

It wasn’t my ego talking to say an episode about me would get more attention than one about the coach. And it felt like she’d given up a little too easily.

Lily Sutton had spent the season chasing one story after another, about the guys, about the team. She dug, pushed, uncovered every angle until she got exactly what she was after. And that made her dangerous. Because I still wasn’t sure what she wanted from me.

The need to protect her scraped against logic. What a fucking joke. Lily Sutton didn’t need protection . Her ferocity made her dangerous—and brilliant, relentless— and absolutely lethal to every ounce of my self-control.

I dragged a hand through my damp hair, flexed my fingers like the action might shake off the lingering sensation of her touch.

Useless.

She hit all my senses at once. The scent of her skin. The soft curves I shouldn’t notice. That sharp mind that kept me on my toes. Temptation wrapped in five-foot-eight inches of trouble, singing to instincts I had no business indulging.

My clothes stuck to me, cold and uncomfortable, but the discomfort meant little against the temptation of her—right there, at once too close and unreachable.

Why the fuck hadn’t I kept my hands to myself? She’d have stumbled, caught herself, moved on.

Instead, heat clung to my skin where she’d pressed against me. Her scent curled around me, threading through every inhale, wrecking my focus, my willpower—my whole goddamn equilibrium.

We’d played this game for months now. Pretending. Ignoring. Like we could outrun the attraction if we just moved fast enough.

Coming up to her apartment had been a mistake. A stupid, reckless mistake. But I’d had a shit weekend, exhaustion dragging at the edges of my control, making bad ideas look a hell of a lot more appealing. Walking her home was one thing. Stepping into the privacy of her space, her world?

Apparently, I’d decided to end my last season as a full-blown masochist.

Great. Alert the press.

She stared up at me, lips parted, bare of her usual bright red lipstick. An invitation if I’d ever seen one. Those lips, smooth and full, deserved their own fan club. Hell, their own award.

The citrus-spice scent of her wrapped tighter, needling under my skin, feeding the tension coiled tight in my gut.

She didn’t step back. Didn’t break the moment.

I did. A half step. A breath of space.

Then I was right back in it, closing the distance again, hands finding her shoulders, grounding myself in the warmth of her skin through her thin shirt. Steadying her, maybe. Keeping her close, absolutely. Thoughts of motives and repercussions blurred, edged out by awareness humming between my body and hers.

She licked her lower lip, a flicker of pink tongue. Quick, mindless.

My brain short-circuited.

Red flags waved louder than a penalty whistle.

Being alone with her? Mistake.

Wanting to kiss her like I hadn’t wanted to kiss anyone in years? Career-ending mistake.

But I was already moving, already leaning in, drawn to those lips that had haunted too many sleepless nights. Her breath hitched, the smallest intake of air, but I felt it everywhere. Her scent wrapped around my head like game-day adrenaline—addictive, reckless, unstoppable.

Her eyes met mine, a hurricane surging.

Then she stepped back.

My hands slipped from her shoulders, the sudden loss of her warmth under my palms jolting through me like an open-ice hit. I almost pitched forward, momentum carrying me toward her before I caught myself.

She shoved the towel between us, a flimsy, fabric-thin barrier. Color flared high on her cheeks, spilling down her neck, drawing my gaze to the delicate curve of her throat. Her fingers twisted in the towel’s edges, like the cloth was the only thing keeping her together. Her eyes darted everywhere without landing on mine.

“Shirt, Viggy,” she blurted, voice high, unsteady, shaking the towel. “Give me your stupid shirt.”

Viggy.

Not Jack.

My nickname on her lips stung. Like an unexpected jab to the ribs. A minute ago, I’d been the man she’d nearly kissed. Now I was a task to handle, a piece to rearrange.

But watching her now—flustered, breaking apart at the edges of that carefully polished mask—something cracked open in my chest. This wasn’t her usual Hollywood smoothness. No practiced composure, no camera-ready charm. Just raw, genuine reaction.

She shook the towel at me again, almost defensive, like she needed the distance, like touching me had done something to her too.

I stepped back again, the cold fabric of my shirt clinging to me like a reminder of reality, pulling me out of the fog of desire—of the mess of thoughts she’d stirred up. And it reminded me I had time. Time to figure her out. To understand why she affected me like this. And what the hell I was going to do about it.

“Right,” I muttered, bundling the wet shirt, pretending not to notice the way her gaze skipped away. But that blush—it deepened.

The corner of my mouth curved before I could stop it.

I’d spent months keeping my distance, seeing only the producer with her cameras, her angles, the grip she kept on the reins. But tonight, that grip of hers looked shaky. It started at the bar, in the hush between her words. And now, here? Seeing Ms. Hollywood rattled gave me ideas.

Made me want to push.

Made me want to see what else I could draw out, what other cracks hid beneath the surface, waiting for the right pressure.

Made me want to kiss her more than ever.

“I’ll be right back.” She retreated toward her bedroom, taking her addictive scent with her.

When had tonight morphed from figuring her out for my own protection to craving every unguarded piece of her?

If she hadn’t pulled away, my mouth would be on hers right now. My blood pounded hot through my veins. Maybe she’d already be spread across the couch under me, or better yet, sprawled across her bed.

She’d been right to stop us.

Letting anything happen between the two of us was stupid, irresponsible. A colossal mistake. I’d let my guard down, distracted by her eyes, her scent, the way her pretty lips parted, coaxing me closer.

Movement rustled from the next room, followed by the low hum of her dryer kicking on. Moments later, she appeared at the end of the loveseat, the kitchen lights glowing behind her.

“Coffee?” She motioned to the island separating her closet-sized kitchen from her barely bigger living room. “While we wait?” She twisted her fingers in the hem of her shirt.

I dragged the towel over my chest, catching the drops still falling from my hair. “Sure,” I said, holding back a laugh. She’d gone still as a statue, her breath hitching as I dried off with the towel. I deliberately swiped from the top of my shoulder to my opposite pec, testing my theory. Sure enough, her teeth sank into her lower lip, her fingers digging into the counter, as her eyes tracked the path of the towel. “That’d be great.”

Her eyes snapped to mine at the laugh in my voice. With a guilty gasp, she spun on her heel and attacked her coffeemaker.

I gave her the moment. Probably rude of me to enjoy it as much as I did, but watching Ms. Hollywood unravel around the edges did things to my ego. She’d turned down the kiss, sure, but every part of her had leaned into it first. I wasn’t some choir boy. I knew the difference between hesitation and rejection. And yeah, maybe my pride took a hit, but seeing her scramble to pull herself back together? Worth it.

My jeans clung uncomfortably, water-logged and heavy. The thought of peeling them off crossed my mind, but that might snap whatever thread Sutton was hanging onto, and I wasn’t a cruel bastard.

Though considering the thoughts running through my own head, I wasn’t exactly on steady ground either.

At least, not tonight.

I stood at the kitchen island and worked the towel through my hair while taking in the sight of her puttering around the tiny kitchen. She kept her back to me, her cut-offs cupping a spectacular rear. Those shorts of hers might just be my new favorite piece of clothing. She shifted from side to side on her long, tan legs as she worked—adjusting the coffeemaker, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet above, then reaching into a fridge that barely cleared her shoulder.

The size difference between her and her apartment’s miniature appliances struck me as oddly endearing. Made me wonder about the woman who’d walked away from California to end up here, making coffee in a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in.

The whole apartment served triple duty—living room, dining room, kitchen all crammed into one. A loveseat served as the only seating at one end of the rectangular room. A skinny bookshelf stood against a wall; titles I itched to inspect stacked haphazardly. At the opposite end, a sink, narrow stove and fridge lined up like soldiers. The counter disappeared beneath a single-cup coffee maker, oversized microwave, and survival rations—oatmeal packets, canned soups, ramen squares.

I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering tension, when movement caught my eye. That white puffball of a cat perched on one of the two barstools tucked up to the island. His ice blue eyes narrowed, radiating pure feline suspicion while his tail twitched back and forth. Even his squashed-in face screamed judgment, like he’d appointed himself guardian of Lily’s tiny domain and found me lacking.

“What’s the story with your cat?”

She turned to face me, her movements as skittish as a startled rabbit. “What do you mean?”

“He’s looking at me like I’m about to steal his tuna.”

She laughed, her gaze sliding to the cat. “He looks at everyone like that. He’s actually really mellow, he just has a permanently grumpy expression.”

“Has he been coming with you to the practice arena all season?”

“Most days. He doesn’t like to be cooped up here alone for too long.”

“How can you tell? He looks even grumpier?”

She gave a low laugh, the sound as soft as velvet. She stepped to the island and the cat immediately jumped atop the counter and pranced closer to Sutton.

She curled her finger beneath the cat’s chin, and gave him a soft scratch. The cat leaned into her touch, the rumble of his low purr carrying through the small apartment. “We know each other pretty well by now. Bright found me a month after I’d left California. I’d moved to Nashville where Adele was working—she directed music videos before I begged her to help me with the Unleashed project. Bright was barely more than a kitten at the time, a stray scavenging around the studio she was renting. He’s been my little shadow ever since.”

Her explanation stopped me short. California to Nashville to Austin. The way her voice hitched when she mentioned California, the shadow that crossed her face... Not a journey she’d undertaken on her own terms.

I wanted to push. Why had she left? What circumstances chased her away from a place she’d obviously loved? But I didn’t like the clouds in her blue-green eyes or the hitch in her voice when she spoke of the past. “Do you take him along when you travel with the team?”

She shook her head, more dark hair tumbling down from her bun. “No, he’s not a fan of flying.”

“Not a fan of much, I’m thinking.”

She grinned, smoothed her flyaway hair out of her face. “He definitely has his preferences. My neighbor takes care of him while I’m gone. Bright gets to stay here, so he’s happy. I know he’s being checked on, so I’m happy. Win-win. My neighbor’s been great, really understanding about my schedule. He won’t take my money, so I order extra delivery when I know he’s home.”

I stretched my neck, scrubbed my hand over my head. Something told me she had no trouble finding men eager to lend her a helping hand.

The coffeemaker chimed. Sutton nudged her cat aside and retrieved the first cup. She passed it to me, motioned to the sugar and powdered creamer containers on the island. “I have some sweet cream creamer in the fridge if you’d prefer that.”

My body was my paycheck. I’d bought in on the whole “my body is a temple” by the time I was twelve and earning accolades for my prowess on the ice. I set aside nutritional standards often enough—hello red meat, dark beer and aged whiskey. But artificial creamers, whether powdered or that syrupy sweet shit that passed as cream? No way that crossed my lips. Had I become a food snob? Yes. Was I going to put over-processed shit in my coffee? No. “Black’s fine.”

The coffeemaker dinged again and she pounced on it like a forward on a loose puck. Three heaping spoonfuls of sugar disappeared into her cup before she drowned the whole thing in creamer from the fridge. Her spoon clinked against ceramic as she stirred, gaze darting up to catch mine before skittering away again.

The hesitant act didn’t fit what I knew about Lily Sutton. I’d give a lot to crawl into her head and get a clue about what she was thinking. Dark hair trailed along her face, down to her shoulders. The remnants of a bun hung on for dear life at the top of her head.

My fingers twitched with the urge to free the rest of her hair. To see if it felt as soft as it looked spilling over her shoulders. To find out if she’d make that little gasp I kept imagining when I tugged it just right.

Fuck.

But I couldn’t tear my eyes away from those escaped strands any more than I could stop wondering what other sounds she might make.

“So,” she drew out the word, her voice dropping to a husky whisper that did dangerous things to my control. The shyness from earlier finally melted away. “Tell me more about working with Mack. What was it like when he first came on?”

I propped my elbow on the island, leaning in closer than I should. “You fishing for more content for that episode?”

“Maybe.” She lifted her chin, but pink flooded her cheeks to make a lie of her bravado. That blush of hers got me every damn time. The color made her look softer somehow. More real than the polished producer who stalked our practices. My fingers itched to trace that color on her face. Worse, I was getting too good at putting it there.

She tilted her chin up and prodded. “You already said he’d make good content. I want the real story though. What’s it like having a new coach come in when you’ve been captain forever?”

“You calling me old, Sutton?” I couldn’t help needling her, watching that blush deepen.

Her eyes went wide. “No! God no, that’s not what I—”

My laugh rumbled up from my chest. “Calm down. I am old. In hockey years anyway.”

“You’re thirty-seven. Hardly old.” She rolled her eyes. “You’ve only got a couple years on me and I refuse to be described as old.”

Try five years. I’d overheard her tell Riley she and Adele were the same age months ago while we were gearing up. Not that I should have filed away that detail. Or any details about Lily Sutton.

“Mack came in with the right attitude,” I said, steering us back to safer ground. “Didn’t try to reinvent the wheel. Actually listened to the players, got to know how we operated before making changes.” I shot her a look. “Unlike some people, he doesn’t mind having his life turned into entertainment.”

Her flinch was slight, but it was there. Good. Let her remember why keeping my guard up around her was smart.

Before she could reply, that cat slipped away from her fingers to sit right in front of me on the counter. His gaze fixed on my face and the fine hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. “He always walk around on the counter? You ever worry about him giving you some kind of cat plague?”

“Um, no? He’s not allowed up here when I have food, but I like when he joins me for coffee.” She motioned to the cabinet under the sink. “As long as I wipe things down frequently, I think we’re safe from any kitty contamination.”

“Good thing I’m not staying over,” I said, glancing toward the unblinking cat. “I have a sneaking suspicion he’d smother me in my sleep.”

Her cheeks flushed, bright and beautiful, her eyes looking everywhere but at me. “He’s not that bad.”

The grumpy cat forgotten, I leaned into the back of the stool, the metal cold on my bare skin. “He tolerates you having company overnight?”

Her head snapped up, her sea-glass eyes wide before fixing on her cat. “No—I mean, yes. Not that—” She cut herself off, that gorgeous blush spreading down her neck, disappearing beneath her shirt.

Couldn’t help myself. I dragged my hand down my chest, tracking her gaze as it followed the movement. Heat flooded my system when her teeth dug into her lower lip. “Which is it, Sutton? Your boy here approve of men in your bed? Or should I be worried about waking up to cat murder?”

“No!” The word exploded out of her. She shot to her feet, all flustered energy and pink cheeks. “No, neither. Bright is a good boy.”

Fuck, but she was beautiful like this. All that cool Hollywood polish cracking around the edges. She fumbled with our coffee cups, the metal spoons clanking against ceramic. The sharp sound should have acted like a warning bell. Should have reminded me why getting close to Lily Sutton was a terrible fucking idea.

Instead, as she shifted to skirt around the island, I reached out to stop her. My hand caught her waist before my brain could object. She wasn’t some delicate thing, either. No, she was all legs and curves, enough to make my mouth water. She didn’t tumble or trip. She held the two cups high and turned wide eyes up to me.

One tug was all it took to bring her between my legs. To cup her face and angle her chin just right. To finally, finally press my mouth to hers.

The spoons clattered in the forgotten cups she still held up, but I barely heard them over the soft sigh she made against my lips. I glided my hands from her waist to her arms, fingers brushing her skin until I reached her hands, still gripping the cups. I wrapped my fingers around hers, grounding us both as I deepened the kiss. No going back now. Not with the taste of her on my tongue and her body melting against mine.

Her lips trembled under mine, and I swallowed her gasp. What I’d intended… fuck that . I hadn’t even thought about what I was doing. She’d moved, and between her fluster, the color in her cheeks, and the way she lit me up, no chance was I walking away.

I tilted my head, traced my tongue along the seam of her lips. Just a taste. Like that would be enough. A groan ripped from my throat as she opened for me. The need to devour her, to bury my hands in that dark hair and taste every sweet inch of her, nearly brought me to my knees.

Breaking away felt like tearing off my own skin. My fingers shook as I tugged the cups from her hands. She stared up at me, lips swollen and pink, pupils blown wide. The sight punched the air from my lungs.

Surprise painted her cheeks, clouded her eyes. When her teeth caught her lower lip, I had to turn away before I did something even more stupid. Like pin her against the counter and show her exactly what her lip-biting did to my self-control.

The cups landed in the sink with a clatter and I gripped the edge until my knuckles turned white. Stood there trying to remember why touching Sutton was a terrible idea. Why I needed to go home, pack my shit, and focus on tomorrow’s road trip to Detroit.

But her taste lingered on my tongue. The heat of her gaze burned between my shoulder blades. The memory of her body yielding against mine destroyed every scrap of willpower I fooled myself into thinking I had.

Fuck it.

I turned, stalking toward her like the predator she turned me into. Need clawed at my insides—to touch her again, to claim that mouth, to find out what other sounds she’d make under my hands.

The dryer buzzed.