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Chapter Twenty-Six

Viggy

Hockey Rule #91: Scars don’t mean you’re ready. Just that you survived Media Rule #91: Clean edits hide the mess

Doc would have my ass for this.

Three weeks post-surgery and my knee felt alien—the constant fire cooled to something manageable. Almost didn’t recognize my own body without pain riding shotgun. Doc had worked his miracle, scraping away destroyed cartilage, realigning the mess I’d made pushing through playoffs. Said I’d be dancing with arthritis down the line, but for now? First time in months I could move without feeling like my leg was gonna explode.

Didn’t mean I should be out here instead of following post-op protocols like a good patient. But lying in bed while my brain spun circles around everything I’d lost? Not happening.

The neon sign of my old sanctuary flickered ahead, half the letters burnt out like always. Inside, the usual collection of odds and ends covered the walls—signed jerseys, vintage beer signs, photographs yellowed with age. The wood of the bar gleamed dull under weak lighting.

I bypassed the bar, something magnetic pulling me straight to the patio. String lights twinkled overhead, creating pools of soft light between shadows. The evening air held that particular Texas weight—not quite stifling, but heavy with the promise of tomorrow’s summer heat.

My usual corner table sat empty. Of course it fucking did.

Citrus and spice ghosted through my senses, an ambush of memory I should’ve seen coming. The way she’d tuck one leg under herself while she worked, that damn laptop reflecting tech blue light on her face. Her cat glaring at the world from that ridiculous backpack. The need to touch her, to drag my fingers through her hair, to taste—

Lock it down, Vignier.

I settled into what used to be my regular chair, leg stretched out more from habit than necessity now. The surgery scars pulled slightly, but the bone-deep ache that had defined my existence had vanished. Felt wrong, somehow. Like losing a piece of myself along with the pain.

The patio buzzed with quiet conversation, regulars seeking refuge from the city’s chaos. But the space felt gutted. Empty in a way that had nothing to do with the number of people. Just another thing that used to matter, back when I was Captain Jack Vignier instead of...whatever the hell I was now.

The string lights shifted overhead, shadows dancing. Another sucker punch of memory—walking her home in the rain, her laughter when I’d complained about her ancient security system. The way she’d felt pressed against me in that narrow hallway, all soft curves and sharp edges. How perfectly she’d fit—

Focus. Future, not the past. One foot in front of the other.

But focus was a game I couldn’t win lately. Harder than admitting my career was done. Harder than accepting that the constant pain that had become my companion was gone, leaving space for other kinds of aching.

I could tell myself I came here to test the knee. To prove the surgery fixed what was broken.

Truth was? Nothing felt fixed. The knee might work, but everything else? Shattered. Like someone had taken a wrecking ball to the foundations I’d built my life on.

The breeze kicked up, string lights swaying. The motion snagged my attention—just like they had that night when she’d sat across from me as a storm blew in, all sharp intelligence and hidden vulnerability. Before I knew what she’d do with those moments of trust.

Before I knew how much losing her would hollow me out.

The string lights blurred with motion overhead, memories hitting faster than I could block them. Every moment we’d shared at this table—her quick mind challenging mine, that spark in her eyes when she knew she’d gotten under my skin in the best possible way.

For a minute there, I’d wanted to build something real. Keep her close. Under my skin, in my bed. In my life.

Enough.

Time to go home. Tomorrow was another day of figuring out who Jack Vignier was without hockey.

Without her.

Fuck that.

I shoved up from the table, knee holding steady.

Strategic thinking had kept me alive in the NHL—knowing when to push through pain and when to fall back. Right now? Strategic thinking screamed to get the hell out before I drowned in what-ifs and could-have-beens.

The bar’s string lights faded behind me as I moved down the familiar sidewalk. My knee felt good—solid in a way that felt almost foreign after so long. But my head? That was a whole other kind of fucked up.

I blamed the restlessness for my feet choosing this path. Three weeks of following doctor’s orders, of careful protocols and measured progress. But walking into Dick’s on Sixth wasn’t some accident. Neither was turning onto her street.

Her building looked exactly the same. Modern mixed-use development trying too hard to look vintage. The kind of place that charged way too much for way too little space. Just the sort of spot where a woman rebuilding her career might land.

My fingers moved before my brain caught up, muscle memory punching in her unit code. The security panel’s glow illuminated my own stupidity. What the hell was I doing here? She’d made her choice. Taken her shot at career redemption, uncaring of the wreckage she left behind. The scent of citrus and spice ghosted through my mind, a sucker punch of memory I should’ve seen coming.

Maybe she wasn’t home. Maybe she was with Malone in some California conference room, planning to torpedo some other schmuck’s career. Climbing that industry ladder she’d wanted so badly. While I stood here like an idiot, staring at a keypad like it held answers.

A crackle of static. Then an unknown woman’s voice: “Hello?”

Reality slammed back. I turned away from the call box, bitter laughter catching in my throat. What the hell had I expected? That she’d still be here? That everything since her last episode aired was just some bad dream? Austin was a stepping stone for Lily Sutton. Of course she’d bolted the instant she’d wrapped up Unleashed . Left me with nothing but memories and the ghost of her perfume haunting my sheets.

The walk back felt longer. Each step a reminder that some things couldn’t be fixed with surgery. Couldn’t be rehabbed or strengthened or rebuilt.

My phone buzzed—Riley’s goofy grin lighting up the screen. The kid had appointed himself my personal recovery cheerleader, showing up with food and terrible jokes ever since I got home from the hospital.

“What’s up, Puppy?”

“You eaten yet? I’ve got Chinese and—” A car whooshed past me, the headlight catching my screen. “Where are you? That’s not your place.”

Smart kid. Too fucking smart sometimes. “Just walking. Testing the knee.”

“At night? Alone?” His voice carried that mix of concern and determination I’d gotten used to lately. “Doc said no solo adventures yet. Stay there, tell me where you are and I’ll pick you up.”

“Riley—”

“Nope! Not taking no for an answer. Since you’re officially retired, you can’t pull rank on me, either. My captain powers now supersede your old man wisdom. Those are the rules.”

“Since when do you have captain powers, rookie?”

“Since I made them up just now. Silver taught me that move—make up rules that work in your favor. He said he learned it from you, so technically this is your fault.” His voice carried that particular mix of sass and worry that only Riley could manage. “Where exactly are you?”

I gave him cross streets, knowing arguing would just waste energy. Kid was like a force of nature once he got an idea in his head. A half an hour later, we sat in my living room. “Been thinking about your uncle’s offer.”

“The partnership thing?” Riley’s eyes lit up. “That would be sick! You and Hoss in the same building?” He swallowed another mouthful before adding, “I mean, as long as I get dibs.”

“Maybe.” The word came out gruff, but truth was, the idea had been circling like an annoying fly for weeks now. Now that the knee actually worked. Now that retirement felt real instead of some distant threat. “Still figuring things out.” I knew what I didn’t want—sitting in some broadcast booth picking apart other guys’ games, or worse, rotting in my apartment reliving my glory days.

“Speaking of figuring things out...” Riley dug in his ever-present backpack. My muscles locked up before he even pulled out the laptop. “Thought maybe we could watch it together?”

“The last episode of Unleashed .” Ice filled my voice.

“It’s not what you think, Cap.”

“Not tonight, Puppy.” The words came out hard, controlled. Like facing down an opponent at center ice—shut it down before it got messy.

He nodded, but something in his expression had my guard up. “Thing is... I was talking to Adele earlier. You know, on the phone. Since she’s not here anymore. She calls to check up on me, though. Says someone has to make sure I’m not living on pizza and energy drinks.”

The air shifted. Thickened. “Adele.”

“Yeah.” His voice turned careful, and even the change in his voice grated against my skin. “She told me about this production company she and Lily started. In Mapleton, Virginia. Near Uncle Hoss’s place.”

Virginia.

My jaw locked. “Think that’s enough bonding for one night.” I pushed to my feet, movement measured. Controlled. Like I wasn’t fighting the urge to put my fist through something. “Some of us have physical therapy in the morning.”

“Cap—”

“Go home, Puppy. Get some rest.” I softened my tone, because this wasn’t his fault. None of it was. “Tell Silver I said to work on your backcheck when you get to training camp in the fall.”

He gathered his stuff, knowing better than to push. But he paused at the door. “Just... watch it sometime, okay? When you’re ready?” His grin flashed, big and toothy, but worry lurked in his eyes. “And you’re not getting rid of me, Viggy. I’ll bring you my Aunt Rae’s hangover cure in the morning.”

After he left, I poured another whiskey. The thumb drive sat on my coffee table, right where it had sat since I found it buried in my duffle bag. I hadn’t touched it. Didn’t need to. Whatever was on it wouldn’t change a damn thing. But her handwriting still cut through me.

For Jack.

I poured another, the amber liquid caught the dim light, the tumbler solid in my grip—something real, something to hold onto while my life faded into memory. First sip burned, fire down my throat that didn’t come close to touching the bitterness lodged in my chest. Second sip went down smoother. Third slid like warm honey, thick and numbing.

The silence in my apartment pressed in, broken only by the soft clink of ice against glass. Each swallow brought memories closer to the surface—her laugh in my kitchen, the scent of her shampoo on my pillow, the way she’d look at me like I was worth seeing beyond the captain’s C.

The whiskey softened the edges, but it couldn’t stop the parade of images. Couldn’t quite blur the memory of her curled in my chair, that damn laptop balanced on her knees while she worked. The way she’d bite her lip when she concentrated. How she’d...

She’d made her choice. And I’d made mine.

The alcohol pulled me under eventually, dreams tangling with reality until I couldn’t tell reality from fiction. Images of the Blue Ridge Mountains filled my whiskey-soaked dreams. Big and solid and unchanging. Through it all, those sea-glass eyes that mesmerized.

I woke up with a neck that felt like I’d taken a board check from behind. My head throbbed, mouth dry as shit. Sunlight sliced through the windows, turning my hangover into something vicious and mean.

The whiskey bottle stood empty next to her thumb drive, the two things on my coffee table I should’ve known better than to mess with. My pulse hammered against my temples, but through the fog of bad choices, Hoss’s words hit like a punch to the gut.

“Sometimes the best plays aren’t the obvious ones, Vignier. Sometimes you gotta trust your instincts over your game plan.”

My phone sat within reach. Hoss’s last message glaring out from the screen.

Virginia.