Page 17

Chapter Seventeen

Viggy

Hockey Rule #48: Play the body, not the puck Media Rule #48: Chase the story, not the truth

Four a.m. and the ceiling fan blades circled overhead, same as they had for the last six hours.

Lily’s citrus shampoo still clung to the sheets, a trick of my imagination because I’d stripped and remade the bed twice. As if fresh linen could erase her. As if it could undo the way she’d gutted me.

After walking away from her yesterday, I’d driven around Austin for hours. No destination. No plan. Just chasing the impossible. Searching for a place where I wasn’t Jack Vignier, captain of the Aces. Where the city wasn’t riddled with memories—sharing beers on the patio, walking her home in the rain, stealing time that had never belonged to us.

Traded a sleepless night for a plan, at least.

By eight a.m., I sat in the team physician’s office at the Aces Performance Center, vinyl chair creaking under my weight. The only silver lining? No damn Unleashed cameras tracking my every breath in here. Small mercy, but I’d take it.

The smell of antiseptic thickened the air, sterile and as unnerving as it ever was. My good leg bounced, restless energy thrumming through me. Seventeen years of sitting in this exact spot. Seventeen years of praying my body held up just long enough.

Checking my watch, I figured I had a few minutes before the doc arrived. Enough time to cross one more thing off my list of to-dos for today. The episode aired tonight. Dad needed to hear it from me first.

He answered on the second ring. “Viggy! Was just thinking about you.”

“Hey, Dad.” Gravel rasped my throat. I cleared it, tried again. Damn Sutton for putting me in this spot. “Got a minute?”

“For you? Always.” The eagerness in his voice added another layer to the mess of emotions coiling up in my gut. Guilt. I should have called him more often this season. Not let the pressure come between us. “Though gotta say, son, surprised to hear from you this close to playoffs. Thought you’d be in game mode already.”

Game mode. Right. If he only knew. I scrubbed my hand over my face. “About that. There’s something you need to know.”

Silence. Dad was good at that. Even when I fucked up royally, he never lost his cool. Just fixed me with that steady look of his and waited for me to sort my shit out.

“The team’s been filming a show all season.”

“The behind-the-scenes one? Your mother loves it. We sit down every Thursday and watch it together. Your mother says she finally gets to see what you’re like at work.”

My stomach clenched. Of course they watched it. “Yeah, well, they’re airing a special episode tonight. About me.”

“A whole episode?” His voice lifted, like it was something to be proud of. “That’s fantastic, son! About time they recognized—”

He never understood why I didn’t want fanfare for my last season. And I never had the words to explain why celebrating the end of my career made my skin crawl. “There’s going to be stuff about my injuries. About my knee.”

Silence stretched between us. I pictured him at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee frozen halfway to his mouth. “Your left one?”

Because it was always my left knee. Since Juniors. Since my first ligament tear. “Yeah.”

A long breath rushed through the line. “How bad?”

And that was the kicker, wasn’t it? How bad? “Bad enough.” I shifted on the vinyl chair, my knee tight and uncomfortable. “Waiting on the doc now, but—” Words dried up in my throat. “It’s not good.”

Another stretch of silence, then the sound of his cup landing on the table. “Not good, as in you’ve been playing injured? I mean, you guys are always injured, I know, I know. You’ve said it a million times. But this time it’s different?”

No heat in his voice. Just a sort of quiet concern that twisted the knife. “Yeah.”

“Of course it is.” Years of watching me push through injuries sighed through his words. “You’ve always been a stubborn SOB. You get that from your mother.”

A dry laugh scraped my throat. But before I could answer, a knock sounded at the door. “Doc’s here, Dad. Just… the episode airs tonight. Wanted to give you a little heads-up.”

“Jack.” Something in my dad’s voice stopped me cold. “Whatever the doc says, whatever you decide—your mom and I are proud of you. You know that, right?”

Like taking a crosscheck to the chest. “Yeah, Dad. I do.”

Dr. Preston walked in as I ended the call, Coach Mack on his heels. Coach caught my attention. “You mind if I sit in? Or I could wait in the hall. Either way works for me.”

I waved him in. The more the merrier.

Coach dropped into the chair beside mine while the doc settled in behind his desk. “Dante’s in the hall when we need her.”

Dante, the PR guru. Ready to spin this shitstorm into gold.

Doc pulled up the images from the MRI I’d taken at the crack of dawn, motioning our attention to the monitor. It looked like a mess of shadows and cloudy blobs.

“You’ve got another meniscus tear. You don’t have a lot of meniscus left in that knee, and that, combined with a pretty significant deterioration of the joint surface probably accounts for your pain. Question, though. Does your knee ever lock up?”

I tightened my fingers around the arm of the chair. “Sometimes, yeah.”

“How do you get it to unlock?’

I shrugged. “It just does.”

“You never thought maybe you should report it?” Coach Mack growled, his glare strong enough to peel paint.

I met his look head-on. “No. Playoffs were around the corner. We needed the points.”

“Christ, Viggy. Way to be a team player.”

My gut twisted at the condemnation in his tone and I looked away.

Dr. Preston cleared his throat. “The locking happens when the torn meniscus tissue gets caught in the joint. I can show you some tricks to getting it unlocked until you handle the tear.” He pointed to what looked like white fuzz in the MRI. “This is all the degenerative changes. Not entirely unexpected, but pretty significant. This isn’t something that will get better without surgery. And the longer you play on it, the more damage you’re doing.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. Only one question mattered. “Are you pulling me?”

The question hung heavy in the air. Doc and Coach traded looks. My fingers gouged holes in the chair.

Two days until playoffs. My last shot at the Cup. Everything I’d worked for came down to what they decided next.

“Viggy,” Coach said. “Ramos wants to get ahead of this. That’s why Dante is already here. I think we let her in at this point, get a big picture take on the situation. Up to you, of course. Considering you’ve only clued us in now when you’re under the gun, I’m assuming your goal is to play as long as possible?”

I nodded, shoving down the prickling of guilt for not having come clean sooner.

“Then let’s get her in here.” Coach rapped his knuckles on the door and Dante strode in, tablet in hand.

Her usual polished smile slipped when she caught sight of the MRI. “Not good news, I take it?”

I shook my head, but turned back to the doc. “Give me the worst-case scenario. If I keep playing.”

“Worst case?” Preston tapped the monitor. “The meniscus slips, the new locks, and you’re in the middle of a game. This time it doesn’t get unlocked. You’re done for the season. Best case, you manage the pain, we tape it, get some cortisone in there to temporarily calm it down. But you risk permanent damage.”

My mouth dried up. “How permanent?”

“Difficulty walking. Severe arthritis. A knee replacement within five years.”

Dante’s fingers flew across her tablet. “We need a plan. The episode airs in—” she checked her watch “—just under eleven hours. We need a team meeting to make sure everyone is on the same page. We need to get our statement out. We need a cohesive message.”

I’d criticized management for bringing in the Unleashed crew, citing the distraction that would come with that sort of production. Now here I was, the biggest distraction of all. Just what my team needed. But one fact remained unchanged. “I want to play.”

Coach’s chair creaked as he swung around to face me. “You sure about that, Vig? Nobody’s questioning what you’ve already given this team. Nobody’s going to think less of you for—”

“I want to play.” The words came sharper, harder than intended. “If you’re not pulling me, I want to play.”

I turned to Dr. Preston. He sighed. “I don’t have to pull you for a meniscus tear. Not if you’ve been playing on it for the last two months. If you can tolerate it, if the pain isn’t a factor—”

“Not a factor.”

“We evaluate regularly. Your knee stability may not hold. You’re going to be at a higher risk for a ligament injury and for long term repercussions. But yes, I can sign off on you playing if you swear to me and your coach right now that you will communicate any changes in symptoms. That you agree to closer monitoring by the medical staff as well as the trainers. And you express understanding that you do risk worsening the condition of your knee.”

Coach Mack slapped the arm of his chair. “You damn well better communicate, Viggy. This is bullshit.”

“I will, Coach. You have my word.”

“PR wise,” Dante cut in, “we’ll start with a press release. Frame it as playing through adversity. Team first mentality.”

Coach snorted. “Team first would have been reporting the injury when it happened. Team first would have been giving your head coach time to prepare for the increased likelihood of you not being in the line-up.”

My guilt twisted, fear rising at Coach voicing my worst nightmare. Me, off the ice.

“Right, Coach.” Dante’s voice stayed neutral. “But the narrative works with the whole wounded warrior, hockey toughness idea. Captain giving it all for one last run at the Cup. Fans eat that up.”

My knee throbbed, a steady soundtrack of pain and everything it signified playing over and over in my mind. “What about the team?”

“Meeting in twenty minutes. Everyone’s already here.” Coach pushed to his feet. “They deserve to hear it from you first.” He shot a look at Dante. “Hold off on that release another hour.”

Coach yanked open the office door. I shoved to my feet, asked his back, “Full disclosure?”

He hovered in the open doorway. “Full disclosure, Viggy. Then we figure out how to win this thing.”

My coach headed out and I moved to follow him when the doctor’s voice stopped me. “Viggy? You understand what you’re risking?”

Did I? My career was over either way. But going out on my terms, with my team? Maybe even with the Cup?

Worth any price.

I met his gaze. “Send any changes in the protocols to the trainers. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Never let them see you sweat. Never let them see you break. Captainship 101. But walking out that door, knowing what waited in the locker room? Hardest thing I’d done in seventeen years of hockey.

* * *

I held the team meeting in the locker room. Ninety-nine percent of my life’s decisions took place in the locker room; no reason today should be any different. The players suited up in practice colors, whites and blues, like any other practice day—with the exception that our next game would start our playoff run.

“Listen up!” Coach Mack’s voice cut through the noise. The music died. Twenty-three faces turned our way, expressions shifting from relaxed to focused as they caught my stance and Coach’s grim face.

Riley, across the room, just left of the center locker—the captain’s locker— straightened from his slouch. The kid had a good radar for knowing when shit turned serious. On the north wall, Silver’s eyes narrowed, tracking between me and Coach. I gave him a nod, sucked in a breath, and launched into the most terrifying speech of my life.

“I’ve got something to say.” My voice carried to the corners of the room. I’d perfected the right pitch, how loud to speak to the room of men I considered my brothers. “We all know when Unleashed airs. Some of you might have heard this already, but tonight’s episode is about me.”

Murmurs rippled through the room. The red recording light blinked from one of the cameras in the corner. Because of course Sutton would be recording this, too.

“The thing is—what I should have come clean about weeks ago—is my knee is worse than I’ve let on.”

The murmurs died. Utter silence descended, broken only by the whir of the blade sharpener next door in the equipment room.

“I had an MRI this morning. Torn meniscus. Some other damage.” Keep it clinical. No emotion. “Doc’s cleared me to play, with conditions.”

I dragged my gaze across the room, meeting the eyes of the players that trusted me. Trusted me to make good decisions. To give the team one hundred percent, something I hadn’t been able to do for the last few weeks. “Because of the knee, I haven’t been able to play up to my standards. Still not going to be a hundred percent—”

“No shit, Vignier.” Chet Doyle’s voice cut through the quiet. I braced. Every team had one, but our resident dickhead never failed to run his mouth and set my back up. “You’ve been off your game for weeks. Cost us that game against the Rangers. Probably the one against Richland, too.” He shoved up from his seat. “Now we find out you’ve known why all along? That you shouldn’t have even been in the line-up?”

Silver’s head snapped toward Doyle. “Watch yourself.”

“Let him talk.” My knee screamed as I shifted my weight, but I kept my voice steady. “You’ve got more to say, Doyle, spit it out.”

“Yeah, I’ve got more.” Doyle’s face flushed red. “We’ve been busting our asses all season. Following your lead. And the whole time you’ve been, what? Too proud to admit you’re not up to playing anymore? That’s not leadership. That’s ego.”

“Shut up, Doyle!” Riley launched forward, but Silver caught him before he could tackle Doyle.

“Anyone else feel that way?” My gaze swept the room. A few guys wouldn’t meet my eyes. Others looked ready to throw down with Doyle. My team was fracturing right in front of me.

Silver stood, commanding attention before he said a word. “You want to talk leadership? Look at our record. Look at where we finished in the conference. Hell, look in the mirror and tell me how many of you are better hockey players because of something Viggy said, something he showed you on the ice. You think that happens by accident?”

“Not saying he hasn’t been good for the team.” Doyle’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Just saying maybe last year shoulda been his last. Maybe it’s time for someone else to step up. Someone who can actually play.”

The room erupted. Guys jumped to their feet, pushed up in one another’s faces, voices rising, aggression. Teammates squaring off across the floor. No unity. No calm. Just noise and blame. A crack down the center of the room.

I’d tried to hold the line. Keep it quiet, keep us focused. Protect the room by carrying it myself.

But knowing didn’t make it easier to watch. And it sure as hell didn’t excuse how long I kept quiet. Told myself it was for the team. For focus. For unity.

Had I done it for them? Or just for me. Fair question.

“Enough!” My voice cut through the chaos. “Doyle’s got a point.”

Silence crashed back in. Even Doyle looked surprised.

“This season has fucked with my thinking. I should have reported the injury when it happened. Should have trusted the system. Trusted you guys. I don’t want to offer excuses, but I want to be honest. It’s hard, knowing when to shed the captain mentality, when to own up to what I need as just a player. That’s on me.”

My pulse hammered. My teammates faced me. Questions on their faces. Confusion in their eyes. Not where I wanted my team to be heading into a playoff run. “But I’ve been cleared by medical to play. You want someone else wearing the C? Talk to Coach. Otherwise, we’ve got forty-eight hours until Game One. Your choice from here—waste more energy on this crap, or focus on beating Chicago.”

Silver spoke first. “I’m with Viggy. All the way.”

“Same!” Riley’s voice rang out.

With each voice that called out their support, more and more of the tension dripped from my shoulders.

Doyle snorted, but dropped back onto the bench in front of his locker without another word.

“Alright then.” My boys met my gaze as I circled the room. “We’re done here, right? We have a Cup to win.”

The team cheered, but some tension lingered. As I moved across the room to my own locker, I caught sight of another damn red camera light. A reminder that the episode was mere hours away. My team might have my back, but what about the rest of the hockey world? What about the fans?

I kicked off my Nikes, changed into my practice blues. I’d fight that battle when it came.