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Chapter Twenty-Seven
Viggy
Hockey Rule #99: If the fire’s still in your gut, you’re not done yet Media Rule #99: Polish the setting all you want—people still want the story
The Three Corners Hockey Development Center didn’t try to be a mini NHL facility. Less flash, more grind. Raw functionality over corporate shine. My knee barely complained as I followed Hoss through the main entrance, the familiar scent of Zamboni-fresh ice and effort wrapped around me like a warm welcome home.
First time back on hockey territory since the loss to the Renegades. Even my exit interview happened at the surgery center, right before they carved up my knee on promises it would be “like new.” Bullshit promises, but the joint worked better. Better every day.
My gut churned as we moved deeper into the building I’d sunk a small fortune into partly owning. Seventeen years in the NHL taught me to analyze every angle, map out each possibility. But those instincts felt hollow now. Empty, like everything else since Austin.
“Weight room’s getting an upgrade next month.” Hoss’s massive frame filled the doorway ahead, pride evident in the sweep of his arm. “New racks coming in, plus some specialized equipment for goalie training.” He hesitated, shooting me a sideways glance. “Renegades have been sending their development guys here, though maybe that’s... shit, probably too soon to mention them, huh? We’ve got players from the Torrent too, and some Sabres prospects coming down next month.”
The mention of the team that ended my career should have triggered something—rage, regret, the bitter taste of almost . Instead, I just felt hollow. Hollow in a way that had nothing to do with losing that final game and everything to do with what—who—I’d lost after. A grinding ache no surgery could fix.
“You good with that?” Hoss asked when I didn’t respond right away, his voice gruff with concern that scraped against my nerves. “The Renegades thing? I can schedule around—”
“I’m fine.” The words came out sharp. Certain. Complete bullshit, but I’d perfected that mask. “It’s business.”
Hoss nodded, but something in his expression said he wasn’t buying my act. I tracked the layout with a player’s eye, muscle memory already mapping optimal training circuits. Two-story setup with recovery spaces tucked away from the main traffic flow. Smart. Keep the serious work separate from the youth programming chaos. “Good bones,” I said, meaning it. “Clean sightlines to the ice from up here too.”
“Remember that playoff series against Tampa?” Hoss grinned as we climbed to the observation deck, clearly eager to move past the awkward moment. “You were a fucking menace on the forecheck that whole round.”
“Ancient history.” But I returned his smile, memories of battling with Hoss flooding back. Guy had been a force of nature on the ice—the kind of player who made the team better just by showing up. Now he was building something real here. Something that mattered.
Below us on a small sheet of ice, a youth practice ran through edge work drills. Their instructor’s voice carried up, patient but firm as he corrected techniques. Good form, especially with the smaller kids. Building foundations that would serve them well down the line.
I recognized the instructor’s jersey—Renegades’ farm team logo. Another reminder of how small the hockey world could be. How impossible it would be to avoid the team that had ended my run at the Cup.
“Main rink’s regulation size,” Hoss said, leading me toward the far end of the room. His shoulders tensed as a couple more Renegades development guys filed onto the ice. “Second sheet’s smaller—perfect for skills work. Shooting lanes, stick handling stations. Planning to add some tech upgrades now that the partnership’s locked in. We can schedule your training blocks whenever you want. Keep things... separated, if that works better.”
Partnership. The word still felt strange. A month ago, I’d been Captain Jack Vignier, face of the Aces franchise. Now? Now I was just another retired player trying to figure out what came next. And apparently being handled like fragile glass by one of the toughest enforcers to ever lace up skates.
“Stop walking on eggshells, Hoss.” I kept my voice steady, controlled. “The Renegades earned their shot. Won the series. We played hard. They played hard. Respect.”
Hoss’s face split into a grin. “Damn, was starting to think retirement had turned you soft like it did me.” He landed a meaty hand on my shoulder. “Though if you’re looking to prove otherwise, we can always take it to the ice. A little one-on-one never did me wrong.”
I snorted, some of the tension bleeding from my shoulders. Leave it to Hoss to know exactly how to cut through my bullshit. Through the glass, the second rink sprawled below us, pristine ice gleaming under LED lighting. No seats, just clean space purpose-built for development. My mind raced ahead, mapping possibilities—multiple stations running simultaneously, video angles for technique analysis, recovery zones tucked away but accessible. The kind of setup that could shape the next generation of players.
“Got serious players interested already,” Hoss continued as if reading my mind. “Word gets around, you know? Your name’s gonna draw more talent. Lots of teams looking for that edge in development—not just the Renegades.” He paused, pushed his shoulders back, pride in his voice.
“Got a whole crew coming up from Florida next month,” Hoss continued, like he was trying to prove the place wasn’t just a Renegades training ground. “Hurricanes’ prospects, couple guys from Tennessee coming to give us a look. Top end talent from everywhere, brother.”
I grunted acknowledgment, studying the custom targets mounted at each station. High-end gear, well-maintained. Everything about the place said serious business wrapped in small-town packaging. On paper, this move made sense. Perfect sense.
But I moved through a fog these days, like I’d never fully shaken the anesthesia after surgery. Going through motions. Following routines. Waiting for something to feel real again.
I meant what I said about not begrudging the Renegades their win. Hell, they’d earned it. But seeing their guys here, in what was supposed to be my fresh start? Twisted something in my gut. Reminded me exactly how it felt watching that final goal sail past our goalie. Watching my last shot at the Cup fade to black.
Then a kid’s laugh echoed off the rafters, pure joy cutting through my bullshit. Made me think of Puppy, all eager energy and stars in his eyes. The way he soaked up every scrap of knowledge like it was gold.
My chest loosened. Outside of playing, nothing beat the rush of watching someone fall in love with the game. Seeing that spark ignite. I could do that here. Guide the rising stars, nurture the dreamers. Maybe that was worth more than chasing ghosts of what could have been.
“You know,” Hoss said, his voice taking on that careful tone that set my teeth on edge, “as much as I pushed, I didn’t really think I stood a chance. Figured you’d head home. Set up shop somewhere up in Canada. My nephew insisted I ask one more time and damned if you didn’t reply the next day.”
“Signed the lease for a place in Weston Mill this morning. Thanks for putting me in touch with the owner,” I said, redirecting before he could dig deeper into my reasons for choosing Virginia. Before he could probe the wounds that still felt raw. “He set me up in a little shotgun house, walking distance to downtown.”
Hoss’s eyebrows shot up. “Settling in, then? We’ve got three counties-worth of people around here, with a couple of tiny towns all within a stone’s throw. You can’t escape the gossip machine in Three Corners.” His grin widened. “Good thing Rae’s got the best hangover cure this side of the Blue Ridge. You’re gonna need it once the welcome wagons hit. And wait’ll you try her maple peanut croissants. She’ll put your fancy Austin breakfast spots to shame.”
The idea of a parade of people knowing my business should have set off warning bells. Instead, it felt... unsurprising. I’d grown up in a tiny town in the backwoods of Quebec. It’d been a long time, but I remembered the life.
“Speaking of settling in...” Hoss stopped outside what would become my office. “Your home away from home,” he said, gesturing to the space currently being cleaned out.
The view of the mountains through the back windows made up for the upheaval that would be my life for the next few weeks as I learned a new routine. I could look out on those mountains all day.
“I’m right next door when you need me,” Hoss continued. “Fair warning though—the coffee maker in my office draws everyone in. Rae upgraded it last Christmas and now it’s like Grand Central Station in there.”
I laughed, the sound less forced than I expected.
“You seem good, Viggy,” he added, studying my face. “Better than I expected after that tribute piece.”
My spine locked. “What tribute?”
But he was already moving on, voice carrying back as he headed for the stairs. “Come on, got some people you should meet. Shep Landon’s reffing the youth team scrimmage on the big ice, so it’s guaranteed to be chaos...”
We hit the ground floor, pushed through a set of heavy double doors, and passed through a mini version of a tunnel to the main ice rink. Hoss cut left and we stood on the spectator side of panes of plexiglass while a herd of kids tore up the ice.
Two refs in striped jerseys chased the action, more cheerleaders than officials. The bigger one—had to be Shep—kept dramatically falling whenever the littlest players got near him, sending them into fits of giggles as they “deked” around him. His partner played it straight, whistle between his teeth, but his eyes crinkled with barely contained laughter every time Shep hit the ice.
Pure joy on that sheet. No pressure, no expectations. Just kids learning to love the game while their parents pressed against the glass, phones out, capturing every moment. The kind of beginning that made me remember why I’d fallen for hockey in the first place.
Movement caught my eye through the observation windows. A flash of dark hair. Familiar curves.
Fuck.
Like a magnet snapping to true north, my focus locked onto Lily before my brain had a chance to shut it down. She stood near the boards, talking to another woman with a camera rig. No power suit today, no polished armor—just that loose, flowy top that slipped off her shoulders, her hair pulled into the kind of messy bun that used to drive me insane. The version of her I’d only seen in stolen moments between games. The one that felt real.
My muscles went tight, body reacting before logic could catch up. Three months since Austin. Since she’d taken my trust and fed it to the cameras. That should have been enough time to kill this... whatever this was. This instant awareness. This pull, raw and unwelcome, clawing at the space between us like time and distance wasn’t enough to sever our connection.
I forced a breath through my nose. Forced my shoulders to stay loose. Three months should’ve been enough. It had to be enough.
A couple of players crashed into the boards near her, their shrieks of laughter a stark contrast to how my gut twisted at the sight of her. Every instinct screamed to clear the zone. Fall back. Regroup. But my body had other ideas—already tracking her movements, cataloging the subtle changes three months had carved into her face.
She looked... settled somehow. Less sharp edges. Less Hollywood polish. Like she’d found something here in this small town that had smoothed away that desperate hunger for industry validation. She looked like the woman I’d come to know. The woman who had first snuck past my defenses that night in the rain. The woman who had the softest skin, made the sweetest little sounds when…
Get your fucking head on straight, Vignier.
But there was nowhere to go. No escaping the memories. No escaping the woman. Just me, frozen in place while the sight of her lit up every nerve ending I’d thought I’d finally gotten under control. The familiar scent of citrus and spice ghosted through my memory like a sucker punch I should have seen coming.
Shep blew his whistle, setting off another round of chaos on the ice. Parents laughed and cheered. Life going on all around me while I stood there like an idiot, unable to tear my gaze from the woman who’d wrecked me more thoroughly than any injury ever could.
“Jack.” Hoss’s voice cut through my spiral. “Need you to meet some folks. This is Shep Landon—taking advantage of his off-season to be a pain in my ass around here. You know him, of course.”
I dragged my attention away from Lily, forced myself to focus on the Renegades forward extending his hand. Built like a tank, with the easy confidence of a guy who’d earned his spot in the show. His handshake matched his build—solid, no-nonsense.
“Welcome to Three Corners,” he said, already turning to wave over a cluster of people watching the action on the ice. “Some of the parents. They’re excited to have you here.”
I nodded, shifted into captain mode. Let muscle memory take over as names and faces blurred past. Years of PR training kickED in, keeping me functional despite the charge of awareness prickling my skin. Because of course Lily was moving closer, her colleague shouldering a complicated camera rig.
“We’re finalizing some promotional material for the youth team,” Shep was saying. “Lily’s company is handling our video package for the sponsors.”
“Sutton.” I kept my voice neutral. Indifferent. Like my pulse wasn’t trying to hammer through my ribcage.
“Viggy.” Her voice carried that hint of husk that used to drive me crazy. Still did, if I was being honest. “Welcome to Virginia.”
“You two know each other?” Shep glanced between us, oblivious to the tension crackling through the air.
“We’ve met.” The words came out rough. Inadequate for describing everything she’d been. Everything we could have been.
Her fingers found that spot on her wrist—the tell I’d learned meant she was fighting for control. “I did some work with the Aces last season.”
One of the parents called out Shep’s name and with a nod, he excused himself. Hoss stood a few feet away beside another parent, and Lily’s camara person had fixed her attention on one of the kids still on the ice.
Great. Last thing I needed, trapped alone with Lily Sutton. I shifted, a breath away from stepping back toward the tunnel, when her voice caught me.
“Did you ever watch it?” she asked, voice soft. Private. “The thumb drive?”
“No.” The word came out harsh. Brutal. Let her see how little I cared about whatever explanation she’d tried to leave behind.
She didn’t flinch from my tone. Didn’t get defensive. Just nodded, something sad and resigned in her eyes. “I really wish you would watch it, Viggy. But I understand if you don’t. You don’t owe me anything.”
The raw honesty in her voice sucker punched me worse than any hit I’d taken on the ice. “Been busy with rehab.”
“Right. That’d take up a lot of your time. Heard you had your knee worked on after the season. I’m glad you’re doing so well.” She shifted her weight, her professional polish cracking just a bit as she rolled her lips, her eyes drifting down. “Well, we should get back to work. Nice to see you.”
She retreated with her camera person, leaving me to deal with the questioning look Hoss shot my way. But before I could escape, a woman stepped into my space.
“I’m Claire Matthews,” she said, touching my forearm. “My son Ben is in the U12 program. We simply must have you over for dinner to welcome you properly.” She punctuated this with a practiced hair flip and smile that probably got a lot of mileage.
Ten years ago, I might have been interested. Might have appreciated the obvious invitation. But I’d had my fill of women who saw the hockey player instead of the man. Who wanted the image instead of the reality.
The thumb drive sat on my coffee table, taunting me. Three months of ignoring its existence, and now here I was, late at night in my new house, whiskey in hand, staring at it like it might explode.
Maybe it would.
I knocked back the last of my drink, grabbed my laptop. Just fucking do it, Vignier. Get it over with.
Curiosity was killing me.
I’d come to Virginia to see her. I’d own that. And now I had, and my skin burned, and my chest felt like I had a ten ton weight crushing me into oblivion.
Lily’s face filled my screen, and the air left my lungs. No power suit. No professional mask. Just her, vulnerable and raw, speaking directly to camera.
“Jack.” Her voice came through steady despite the tears glistening in her eyes. “I owed you the truth weeks ago. About the episode, about Malone’s demands, about...” She drew in a shaky breath and I refilled my drink. “About how I fell in love with you somewhere between trying to tell your story and actually seeing you.”
The confession hit like a thunderbolt. My fingers tightened on the glass.
“You deserved better than what I handed you. Better than someone who let fear drive her decisions. This episode, our last—” She gestured to something off-screen. “This is what I should have done from the start. This is the story you deserved to have.”
Her voice thickened with emotion. “The real story isn’t about injuries or controversy. It’s about seventeen years of leading by example. About making everyone around you better. About...” Her voice cracked. “About being exactly the kind of man I wish I’d been brave enough to choose over my career when I had the chance.”
Something cracked in my chest. Hard. Sharp. The kind of pain no surgery could fix.
“I hope someday you can forgive me,” she continued. “But even if you don’t—you should know that you changed me. Made me remember who I used to be before I learned to compromise my values. So... thank you. For that. For everything.”
The screen went dark, the Aces Unleashed theme music started up and the screen lit again with the usual intro for her show.
But this wasn’t anything like the hatchet job she’d done before. This was something else entirely.
My first NHL captain appeared on screen, gruff and weathered but grinning. “Knew from his first practice—this kid was special. Not just the talent, but the way he thought about the game. The way he lived it.”
The footage cut to my early years, showing not just the highlights everyone had seen, but the quiet moments. Me staying late to work with younger players. The way I’d stepped between teammates and trouble, taking the hits so they didn’t have to.
Coach after coach, teammate after teammate—faces from across my career sharing stories I’d forgotten. The trainer from Detroit talking about how I’d helped his son learn to skate. The equipment manager in Montreal reminiscing about late-night strategy sessions.
Silver appeared; his usual stoic expression softened with respect. “Everything I know about leading a team, I learned from Viggy. He showed me that being captain isn’t about wearing the C—it’s about putting the team first, always.”
My throat tightened as more familiar faces filled the screen. Players I’d mentored over the years, some now retired, others leading their own teams. Each one sharing a moment where I’d made a difference. Where I’d helped shape their understanding of what it meant to play this game.
Then Riley’s goofy grin filled the frame. “Everyone talks about Viggy the player, right? The Selkes, the records, all that. But they don’t see what happens behind the scenes. How he stays late to work with us rookies. How he knows exactly when to push and when to back off. He taught me that being great isn’t just about what I can do on my own—it’s about making everyone around you better.”
The footage wove together years of moments I’d forgotten—the victories, the losses, the quiet times between. Not just a highlight reel, but a testament to what really mattered. To the legacy I’d built without even realizing it.
The final segment showed a series of current NHL captains, each one talking about how they modeled their leadership on what they’d learned from me. How my influence had spread throughout the league, shaping the next generation of players.
My vision blurred as the credits rolled. All these years chasing the Cup, thinking that would define my career. But this—this was something different. Something bigger.
I’d spent months angry about the playoff episode, about how it had exposed my weakness. But this version? This showed my real strength. Not in spite of the injury or the loss, but because of how I’d handled everything the game threw at me. How I’d helped others handle it too.
The whiskey sat forgotten as emotion crashed through me. Pride. Gratitude. The profound relief of knowing that even without that final trophy, I’d built something that mattered. Something that would outlast any championship banner.
My legacy wasn’t etched in silver after all. It lived in the players I’d mentored, in the lives I’d touched, in the way the game would be played long after I’d hung up my skates.
And somehow, Lily had seen that. Had found a way to show not just what I’d done, but who I’d been. Who I still was.
I stood, moved to the window. The mountains rose dark against the star-filled sky, solid and unchanging. Like they’d been here forever, waiting for me to find my way to them.
To her.
All this time I’d been carrying the weight of my last season—the injury, the loss, the bitter taste of almost . But watching myself through Lily’s lens, seeing how she truly saw me... Something inside my chest loosened. Expanded.
She hadn’t cut together some overproduced farewell. She hadn’t just captured my career. She’d seen me . The man behind the C. The leader who put everyone else first. The teacher who found satisfaction in others’ success.
And maybe this had been her goodbye. The story she chose to tell instead of the one Malone wanted.
She’d told me she was turning him down. At the time, I hadn’t cared. But now? Seeing this—what she made, where she ended up—it felt like she meant it. Like she walked away from a fight she’d spent years trying to win.
My head said to be cautious. To remember how much it hurt when she’d betrayed me. But leading with my head had never worked when it came to Lily Sutton. Maybe because what we had was never about what should be—it was about seeing each other clearly, even when we tried to hide.
I felt stronger now. Ready for whatever came next. Not just the coaching or the partnership with Hoss, but everything else too. The next chapter was mine to write, and for the first time since hanging up my skates, that felt like freedom instead of loss.
The mountains stood silent, offering no answers. But they didn’t need to. I already knew what I wanted.
Time to stop playing defense.
Time to start on my tomorrows.