Page 1
Chapter One
Viggy
Hockey Rule #1: Play for the crest on the front, not the name on the back Media Rule #1: Personal brand is everything
Two weeks until the last playoff run of my career.
The thought settled like cement in my gut as I stared through my truck’s windshield at the PR circus unfolding on the shoreline below. A petting zoo and canoe regatta—apparently team management figured my farewell tour needed more family-friendly photo ops. Like watching their captain paddle around Lady Bird Lake would somehow make up for seventeen years of almost . All kinds of accolades, but no cup. Fan-fucking-tastic.
My knee screamed in protest, every twinge a stark reminder that I couldn’t afford to waste a single moment of rest. Not now. Not with everything on the line. But here I sat, white-knuckling my steering wheel while some PR genius decided nothing said “Stanley Cup Contender” like a fuckin’ dog and pony show.
The instant I stepped out of my truck, I’d need to be “on.” Captain Jack Vignier, face of the franchise, leader of men.
Not a beat-up warrior skating on borrowed time and sheer stubbornness.
One stupid move a few weeks ago, a hit I should have seen coming, took my knee out from under me and put me in my current position—violating my contract with the Aces by not reporting the truth about my knee.
The same knee I’d torn a meniscus in years ago and which liked to flare up now and then. Hockey was physical; aches and pains came with the territory. Usually, a little TLC and rest did the trick. After seventeen years in the league, I knew how to take my hits and keep on moving.
But this time felt different. The pain hadn’t faded—if anything, it burned hotter with each passing day. Two weeks from playoffs, from my last shot at the Cup, and my body was betraying me in the worst possible way. If I’d torn something—or worse, and the grinding in my knee definitely felt worse—they’d pull me from the lineup faster than a rookie’s first fight.
The lot had filled while I sat brooding, fans streaming past in their Aces gear. No more time to hide. I flicked my sunglasses down over my eyes and hauled myself out of the truck, each movement calculated to hide the weakness in my leg. The sun-warmed concrete at the lot’s edge became my anchor as I leaned against the railing there, taking in the scene below.
Lady Bird Lake stretched out like some demented summer camp fever dream. Canoes and paddleboards dotted the water like floating Skittles, Austin’s skyline towering behind like a disapproving ref. Paddle for the Playoffs—an excuse to parade the team in front of sponsors. Canoe races, yappy dogs, and more cameras than a Habs-Leafs playoff game.
Christ, my knee throbbed.
“Great weather, eh, Viggy?” Some fan’s chirpy voice cut through my dark thoughts. “Can’t ask for better than blue skies for a day on the lake!”
I nodded, even managed a twitch of a smile as the woman passed. The area teemed with a sea of fans decked out in Aces gear, all buzzing with a pre-playoff excitement. The kind of excitement that had the Aces organization seeing dollar signs.
A year ago, I’d have been right there with them, my body humming with that electric charge that only came with playoff season bearing down. Even beat to hell like we all were—bodies mapped with bruises from eighty-two games of grinding it out—I’d have found that spark. Would have turned it on like flipping a switch.
This year, that switch felt broken. Rusted shut. And the smile that used to be second nature had all but disappeared. Or, at least, been buried beneath a landslide of pain and pressure and the weight of a career spent chasing something that kept slipping through my fingers.
The fans deserved better. They wanted their piece of the captain—the good attitude, the autograph, the competition I was known for. Even at something as ridiculous as Paddles for the Playoffs. And I got it, I did. But Christ, my whole future balanced on this knife’s edge of pain, and here I was playing circus ringmaster.
God forbid the Aces organization miss out on a chance to schmooze with the season ticket holders.
God forbid they lose that perfect social media moment—their captain pretending this publicity stunt mattered more than the playoffs looming ahead.
God forbid we put our energy where it belonged—on the ice.
Maybe this was why the team always struggled in the playoffs. Maybe I was the only one around here taking it seriously. Sure as fuck wasn’t management. For them, fan attention trumped all.
As if we could afford to lose our focus at this point in the season.
As if I hadn’t been chasing the Stanley Cup for years, a cup that always seemed just out of reach.
As if a photo op with an excited fan could make up for the empty space on my list of accomplishments.
If I could power through this knee injury, the least management could do was not fuck with my time off.
I shoved away from the cement barrier and forced myself down the steps. Took my time about it, as though I had nowhere better to be. Ignoring the grind of bone on bone with every downward stride.
Bodies packed the deck and picnic areas, event staff trying to control the flow between stations like refs managing line changes. Then I caught sight of the camera guy, his lens already tracking movement in the crowd. My jaw clenched while I counted out a slow breath.
The damn Aces Unleashed crew. All season long they’d been shadowing my team, hunting for their precious viral moments. A pack of vultures masquerading as content creators, ready to descend like vultures on any hint of drama they could milk for views.
Sure enough, there stood the head vulture, Ms. Hollywood herself. Lily Sutton. Effortlessly cool in a flowing shirt and jean shorts that—dammit to hell—looked fantastic on her. Just what I needed, to be attracted to the woman determined to make my last season as miserable as possible.
Lily Sutton, drop-dead gorgeous with her wavy dark brown hair, painted red lips, and blue-green eyes held a disconcerting sort of power. The whole NHL combined couldn’t match the threat she wielded with that camera crew of hers. They’d arrived at the start of the season, filming our every move for their “near-live” show. Every practice, every game, every damn moment dissected for the world to see.
I stepped past her on my way to where the team’s PR people had set up. And because this season had pegged me as the target in a punishing game of whack-a-mole, she fell into step beside me.
The breeze reeked of dirty lake water and cheap sunscreen. But damn if even the polluted wind failed to mask her scent. Citrus and something sharper, spicier. It hit me like a shot of whiskey, cutting through the surface crap to settle in my bones. The woman smelled too good. The kind of good that made my gut clench. That set my pulse to pounding. That triggered a primal urge to find the source, despite her presence being everything I didn’t need.
No dainty floral bullshit for Ms. Hollywood. Citrus and spice. Sharp, like her. Why the hell did she have to smell so damn interesting? And since when had I ever noticed the way a woman I wasn’t fucking smelled?
“We have cameras mounted to cover the dock, vendors, the pet station, picnic area, and crowd. Please stay in these locations. And the canoes and paddleboards are outfitted with remotes. The paddleboards were a little trickier to outfit, but my team tried to make the camera as unobtrusive as possible.”
“I’ll be in a canoe,” I growled, cutting her off. “Not that it matters. You vultures are about as subtle as a foghorn.” It had been a circus from the moment they’d invaded the Aces’ locker room—cameras in our faces, microphones picking up volatile tempers as well as private conversations. Intrusive. Distracting. Hell, it was a miracle we’d made it this far. Seventeen years, five Selkies, likely even a spot in the Hall of Fame—I’d poured my blood, sweat and tears onto the ice. But the Cup? I straightened my shoulders. This year, that big, shiny bastard was mine.
And Lily and her crew wouldn’t wreck my last shot.
This was it. My final season. The last time I’d wear the Aces jersey, feel the bite of the ice in fierce competition. I’d hoped to walk away quietly, on my own terms. Instead, management had turned my retirement into a spectacle, a chance to wring every last dollar out of my fading career.
Nothing like a little bonus pressure.
“The canoes have cameras at the front and on the benches in the middle. Still a little awkward, but you should be able to paddle fine and the footage should be great.”
“Well, as long as the footage is good.”
She snorted, catching the sarcasm without breaking stride and I risked a glance down. No power suit today. Just a thin white shirt stretched tight across her chest, the faint outline of lace beneath it impossible to ignore. Damn her. She’d traded tailored slacks for cutoffs—ripped denim clinging to her hips, frayed threads dangling along her lush thighs, and wreaking havoc on my blood pressure.
A feline growl interrupted my fixation on Lily Sutton’s legs. I dragged my gaze upward, my eyes skimming over the taut fabric of her shirt—damn those backpack straps—before settling on her face. “Are you hiding a cat?”
She twisted, revealing a backpack with a large clear bowl window in the middle. A fluffy white feline perched inside. He eyed me like I was a mouse and he was a breath away from demonstrating his predatory predilections. “He looks pissed.”
“That’s his permanent expression. He’s just complaining now because of the bounce.”
She wiggled in place, demonstrating. Her cat gave a protesting yowl. Her backpack shifted with her movements, her shirt tightening across her chest until the fabric gaped between the buttons, flashing me a glimpse of pretty white lace.
Focus, Vignier. I dragged my eyes back to her face, heat burning the back of my neck. “Right,” I said, “the bounce.”
“Be mindful of the cameras but act natural out in those canoes, okay?” If she noticed where my attention had gone, she didn’t show it. But her voice snapped back into that clipped, professional cadence I’d come to expect from her. The one that grated on my nerves and challenged me to push her just to see what she would do. “I think that footage is going to be the centerpiece of the next episode.”
I nodded like I cared and she finally cut away, swerving between picnic tables with the grace of a skilled skater. I pictured her on skates. Did she even know how? Or would she flounder like a fish out of water on the ice?
The damn woman oozed confidence and somehow the image of her floundering just wouldn’t form.
Her crew had set up a temporary base at the back of the picnic area. My gaze fixed on her until a motion dragged my attention from the gorgeous showrunner. Adele, the director of the bunch, waved. Heat tingled up the back of my neck at being caught ogling Lily’s ass.
I navigated my way through the swarm of people, eager faces and Aces gear everywhere I looked. The bright Austin sun beamed down. I should have worn a hat, let the brim hide the brittleness of my smile.
A blur of blue shot through the crowd toward me, dodging legs like a caffeinated pinball. I braked hard, to avoid a collision, but the jolt sent a searing pain up my bad leg. The world tilted, and I gripped the railing at the side of the path. Don’t fall. Don’t fucking fall. One stumble, and the gig would be up. Everyone would see how close I was to breaking.
An older girl clamped a hand onto the kid’s shoulder, twisting his shirt into her fist to yank him back. “Sorry, Mr. Vignier. My brother’s excited.” She held out an Aces cap and Sharpie, her eyes wide with her own hero-worship. “Could you sign this?”
I pushed out a smile and signed through gritted teeth. “You got it.”
“Are you getting a dog?” Her brother bounced on the balls of his feet. “They have a bunch of dogs over there. And cats and kittens and puppies and a bird !”
“That right? Let’s hope they keep the bird on land. Can’t imagine it’d be much help with paddling a canoe, can you?”
The kids beamed up at me, their enthusiasm taking the edge off my discomfort. “You think they’ll assign me the bird? How’d I look with a bird on my shoulder, eh?”
They laughed and more of my tension eased. “Nah,” said the girl with a shake of her head. “You need a big, scary dog.”
“Big and scary, huh?” I puffed out my chest. “Am I scary?”
The boy giggled. “Yeah!”
They left me with a grin and I made my way to the tent set up by the local Austin Animal Allies group.
The Aces organization, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to partner with the local animal shelter for this year’s Paddle for the Playoffs. Each player would be saddled with an adoptable pet for the canoe race. As if paddling a damn canoe wasn’t challenging enough on its own.
Luck was finally on my side though, as the adoption volunteers assigned me a young lab. Black as pitch, sleek muscle and boundless energy. She sniffed my hand, then nudged it, big brown eyes begging for a treat. “Sorry, girl. I’m a terrible human. I didn’t bring treats.”
Just then, Lily emerged from the throng of people, her voice a cool contrast to the shoreline cacophony. “What kind of person doesn’t bring dog treats to a dog event?”
“The kind that doesn’t have dogs.”
“I don’t either, but lookie here.” She knelt beside the lab, her hand extended. The dog wiggled, thwapping her tail so hard her body rocked from side to side as she scarfed down whatever Lily had in her palm.
“What happened to the grumpy cat?”
“He’s monitoring the video feed from the shade.”
Video feed. Another reminder to guard my game. “Are you carrying iguana treats, too?”
“Huh?” She looked up at me, her blue-green eyes sparkling as brightly as the sunshine reflecting off the lake.
I motioned toward one of my players, Whitney. He’d already climbed into a canoe, but the iguana wouldn’t budge from the edge of the deck.
Lily stood. My gaze snagged on the curve of her calf, her thigh, the smooth line of her bare leg disappearing beneath the frayed denim of her shorts. Focus, Vignier. Lizard. Not legs. “That iguana’s the size of a Komodo dragon. I don’t think one of your piddling dog treats is going to tempt it.”
Her laughter rolled over me, soft and sensual, rounding off the edge of my annoyance. A dangerous reaction I'd been battling for months now.
“You might be right.” She turned her face up to mine with a conspiratorial smile. Her eyes, a mix of blues and greens like a pretty meadow right before a storm moved in, held my gaze when most would have looked away.
Just then, Adam Riley, the rookie sensation with the energy of a squirrel on a sugar high and a knack for attracting chaos, bellowed my name across the deck. He barreled through the crowd with a barrage of high fives and back slaps. A bright red and blue parrot perched on his shoulder.
“I’m with you, Cap!” he said as he reached me, vibrating with the sort of enthusiasm that could curdle milk. “I picked us up a pirate copilot! Polly wants a paddle, eh? Gonna bring us luck, am I right?” The bird squawked, ruffling his red and blue feathers and fixing me with beady eyes.
Fuck my life. “Right.”
Riley sidled past me, chattering away to the bird like the animal was his new best friend.
Lily pressed a handful of little round dog treats into my palm. “Good luck, Viggy.”
My palm tingled and I resisted the urge to flex my fingers. I’d need more than luck to survive the day, but my fingers closed over the treats and I gently tugged the leash to get the lab moving toward the canoes. More of players gathered around the dock, an assortment of dogs at their feet. Several stood over Whitney as he maneuvered the enormous iguana into the canoe.
Riley stood next to me. “Alright, Captain. We’re winning this thing, right?”
“You ever paddled a canoe before?”
He grinned. “Nah. But, boss, how hard can it be?”
Over the next few minutes, volunteers outfitted the animals with life jackets and harnesses. As the volunteer helped me into my own life jacket, showing me where to attach the dog’s leash and how to operate the quick release mechanism in case the canoe flipped, I couldn’t help but get into the spirit of the competition.
We got a quick lesson in how to steer and then we loaded up. I craned my neck around to catch sight of Whitney done up in his neon orange life jacket along with Bell. The iguana, somehow managing to look proud in his own bright yellow lizard jacket, took up all the space between the two men.
On the bench in front of me, the bird dipping and fluttering as Riley settled into position, loudly narrating the rookie’s every move. Its squawks echoed across the lake as we lined up with the rest of the team at the start of the race.
Bell jockeyed for better position, knocking into our canoe and setting the lab in front of me to barking. The canoe rocked with her lunging, but the harness she wore kept her from going overboard. “No cheating, Bell. Get your ass in line behind me.”
“How’s that not cheating, Viggy?”
“Captain’s privilege.”
“Fuck that,” Bell said.
On the deck, a woman outfitted in Aces gear from head to toe raised a flag in one hand and an airhorn in the other, her voice barely audible over the barking dogs and cheering fans. “Racers, get ready!”
I dug the paddle into the water, pushing against Bell’s pressure at our side. The airhorn blasted, the sound sending a jolt of adrenaline through me, and we lurched forward.
Riley started with a frantic splash of paddling, the parrot erupting into a racket of shrill whistles and ear-splitting screeches, getting us exactly nowhere. “Riley,” I barked. “Get it together.”
He found his groove and we settled into a blur of synchronized strokes. I did my best to keep us straight, but the effort put a strain on my knee. Bell side-swiped us and from his grin, it was intentional. I snarled at Riley to row faster and we powered ahead of him toward the finish line.
We found our rhythm, paddles slicing through the water in sync. The parrot, however, seemed to think it was a one-bird cheering squad, its whistles loud enough to wake the dead. The lab, a black blur of wagging tail and excited yips, added her own commentary, barking at the canoes behind, her rabid barks mimicking canine trash talk. The bird chimed in with a bizarre chorus of insults and parroted barks. I tossed the dog a treat—courtesy of Ms. Hollywood. The dog had earned it. As long as the rest of the team stayed behind us, I could handle the damn zoo.
The roar of the crowd welcomed us as our canoe slammed against the dock, the vibration rattling my teeth.
“Heck yeah!” Riley bellowed, waving his paddle over his head to the calls of his squawking parrot.
I unbuckled the lab from my jacket and she launched herself onto the deck. Up ahead, Riley vaulted out of the canoe, oblivious to the rocking wake that nearly tossed me into the lake. My knee shrieked in protest as I straightened, every joint aching, every muscle screaming. Feeling every one of my thirty-seven years, I gripped the gunwale and hauled myself onto the dock.
The crowd roared, a jumbled mess of cheers, barks, and that damn parrot’s ear-splitting whistle. The team’s social media guru snapped pics like a paparazzi on the red carpet. I smiled, slapping high-fives with Riley and fans. After seventeen years, I knew my role well. Captain Jack “Viggy” Vignier, always in control, always leading the charge.
The irony burned like a shot of cheap whiskey. A hollow victory, celebrated by a man on the verge of collapse. My gaze swept over my teammates, some already on dock, others still paddling in circles on the lake. One of them would be taking my place next season.
Today’s win rang hollow, a manufactured pretense hiding the cracks in the ice. Those damn cameras poised to catch the first sign of weakness. I straightened my spine, ignoring the throbbing in my knee, the ache in my muscles, the bone-deep exhaustion that threatened to drown me. Not just physical exhaustion, though that was bad enough. It was the mental grind, the constant pressure, the second-guessing, the knowledge that my body was a ticking time bomb.
Just a few more weeks. Just a little longer. Hold out, win the Cup, then who cared if the whole damn thing crumbled.
I glared into the nearest lens and plowed through the crowd. There would be no wincing, no limping, no sign of vulnerability. Not for the cameras, not for the fans, and especially not for Lily Sutton and her too-perceptive eyes.