Page 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Viggy

Hockey Rule #72: You’re only as good as your last shift Media Rule #72: Today’s headline erases yesterday’s career

Pain ripped through my knee as I dug in for the face-off. Sweat trickled down my spine, my jersey soaked through despite the chill coming off the ice. We’d battled Richland through two periods, trading goals, trading hits, both teams leaving everything on the ice.

Down by one in the third. Bare minutes left in Game Seven. We win, we move on. We lose, my time comes to an end.

My whole fucking career came down to the next few shifts.

The official held the puck high. Richland’s center, Fournier, shifted his weight, telegraphing which way he’d move. Been playing against the guy for a decade. His left skate angled out a fraction—dead giveaway.

The puck dropped.

Pure instinct triggered. Years of muscle memory kicked in. My stick snapped through the draw, sending the puck back to Han. Clean win, despite the fire in my knee.

“That’s it, Cap!” Riley’s voice carried over the crowd noise as he streaked past, chasing the play up ice. Still had that rookie enthusiasm, even after the beating he’d taken this series.

I powered up the ice after him, each stride sending jolts of agony through my leg. Didn’t matter. Pain was just weakness leaving the body—Dad drilled that into me twenty years ago.

Han quarterbacked from the point, cycling the puck down low. Working their defense, wearing them down. Smart hockey. Patient hockey.

A flash of movement caught my eye—their bruiser zeroing in on Riley as the kid curled behind the net. Fuck that noise.

I cut hard across the slot, putting myself between Riley and the incoming hit. The collision rattled my teeth, sent shockwaves through my busted knee. But the kid maintained possession, threading a pass out front.

“Jesus, Cap.” Han appeared at my elbow as I regained my feet. His eyes held understanding I didn’t want to see. “Let us take some of these.”

I shook him off. “Play your game.”

The shift ground on, my lungs burning as we battled along the boards. Every muscle screaming. But surrender wasn’t in my vocabulary. Not with everything on the line.

Their D-man tried forcing a pass up the middle. I read it coming, stepped into the lane. The puck hit my stick like destiny. Like seventeen years of blood, sweat and tears converging into one perfect moment.

Time slowed.

Through years of instinct, I saw it all laid out like a map—the tiny gap between their defensemen, barely wide enough for a puck. Their goalie had drifted an inch too far from the right goal post, probably anticipating a pass. That sliver of space up high, right where the water bottle perched on top of the net. The kind of shot that’d make the highlight reels if I could thread the needle.

Down by one. Less than a minute left. My last chance.

Pure fucking instinct.

The puck left my stick like a bullet, sailing through that narrow window between defenders. I caught a flash of panic in the goalie’s eyes as he realized his mistake, saw him lunge desperately. Too late. The shot found that perfect spot, top corner. The water bottle exploded off its perch as the puck slammed into the back of the net. The goal horn screamed, mixing with the thunderous roar of twenty thousand fans who’d been holding their breath.

4–4. Forty-three seconds left.

Riley crashed into me first, screaming something I couldn’t make out over the chaos. The rest of the team piled on, their joy a tangible thing. Raw. Electric. But beneath their celebration, reality settled in my gut like lead. We weren’t done. Extra hockey waited.

My knee felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, but I couldn’t focus on that. Not with overtime looming. Not with everything on the line.

“Line change!” Coach’s voice cut through the chaos.

I gritted my teeth and powered toward the bench. My last regulation shift done. Now came the real test—sudden death overtime.

The overtime faceoff felt like my thousandth of the night. Sweat froze against my neck, my lungs burning with each breath. Twenty-three years of hockey, from peewee to the show, and it all came down to this.

Fournier smirked across the dot. “Hell of a game, Vignier.”

The words hit like a blade between the ribs. But then the respect in his eyes penetrated. The words tasted like goodbye.

Puck dropped. Clean win. Another small victory in a war I was losing by inches.

I sent the puck deep, buying time for a line change. My knee screamed with each stride back to the bench. Coach caught my eye, that look that said he knew. Knew I was running on pure fucking willpower alone.

“You’ve given everything, Vig.” His hand landed on my shoulder. “The boys can—”

“I’m good.” The lie came easy. Familiar as the stick in my hands.

Five minutes into OT, Richland’s top line caught us in transition. A broken play at the blue line. Their sniper finding space where there shouldn’t be any.

I read it coming. Got into position to cut off the passing lane. My knee screamed but held—nearly two decades

of muscle memory and pure determination keeping me in the play.

But hockey’s a game of inches. Of split-second decisions. Of random bounces that define careers.

The puck deflected off a skate, changed direction just enough. Found their man in the slot. His shot painted the corner before our goalie could push across.

Sometimes giving everything you have just isn’t enough.

Silence.

The kind that swallows your soul.

Then the explosion of celebration from their bench. The death knell of sticks and gloves hitting ice as they poured onto the surface.

I pushed to my feet. Captain to the end. Led my team through the handshake line, accepting the respect offered by guys I’d battled against for years. Their words blurred together—good series, hell of a career, thanks for the battles.

“You’re a legend, man.” Fournier’s grip on my hand lingered. “The game’s gonna miss you.”

The fans started it. A slow clap building to a roar. My teammates tapped their sticks against the ice—the universal hockey sign of respect. Even the Richland players paused their celebration, joining the tribute.

My throat closed up. I lifted my stick in acknowledgment, made one final lap around the ice I’d called home for most of my adult life. Each stride a reminder of everything I’d given to this game. Everything it had given back.

The locker room felt like a funeral. Hollow. Heavy. I wanted to say something. Find the right words to lift them up. But for the first time in my career, leadership failed me.

Coach Mack saved me. Gathered them close, spoke about pride and battle and leaving it all on the ice. Said everything I couldn’t through the vice grip around my chest.

I stripped my gear methodically. One piece at a time. The ritual I’d performed thousands of times now feeling like a final goodbye.

Something clattered from my stall as I reached for my suit. A thumb drive. Simple. Small. My name written in feminine handwriting.

Lily.

The ache in my chest had nothing to do with losing the game.

My phone buzzed. Dad’s name on the screen. I stepped into the hall, found a quiet corner. “Hey.”

“Proud of you, son.” His voice came through rough with emotion. “Gave everything you had.”

“Wasn’t enough.”

“The hell it wasn’t.” Steel entered his tone. “You went out on your shield. Fighting. Leading. I’m so damn proud of you, son.”

Something cracked open in my chest. “Dad—”

“Your mother’s crying. Says you’re still her baby boy.” He cleared his throat. “But I see the player you’ve become. The legacy you built there. That’s worth more than any Cup.”

We disconnected the call and I leaned against the wall, let it take my weight. Let his words wash over me.

The hallway had emptied. The arena gone quiet. Just me and the ghost of what could have been. The thumb drive burned in my pocket, heavy with emotions I wasn’t ready to face.

Time to let go.

Of the game. Of the dreams. Of the woman who’d somehow wound her way past all my defenses just in time to see them crumble.

I pushed off the wall. One foot in front of the other.

The way I’d always done.