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Chapter Twenty-Nine

Viggy

Hockey Rule #103: Real captains lead after the whistle Media Rule #103: Your past doesn’t disqualify you. It defines your pitch

My knee barely complained as I demonstrated the face-off technique again, muscle memory taking over despite months away from competitive play. The two Renegades farm team guys—both centers fighting for a shot at the big club—watched with the kind of intensity that said they got it. That they understood what separated good from great wasn’t just talent, but the minute details. The stuff that happened in empty rinks when nobody was watching.

“Like this?” The bigger one—Stevens—adjusted his grip, copying my stance.

Not bad. Not perfect, but not bad. I tapped his elbow. “Lower. You want leverage here.” I positioned his arm, remembering countless sessions when I’d been the rookie soaking up every scrap of wisdom I could find. “There. Now you’re ready when he tries to muscle through.”

The other guy—Marshall—bounced on his skates, that familiar hunger in his eyes. The kind that said he’d practice until his hands bled if that’s what it took to make the show. “One more time? Full speed?”

I checked the clock on the far wall. We’d already gone thirty minutes over our scheduled time, but that eagerness to learn... How many times had I been that guy? Begging for one more rep, one more drill, one more chance to prove I belonged?

“Quick one,” I said, settling into position. “Then I’ve got a meeting.”

Except when we finished, Hoss stood at the boards, shaking his head. His usual grin looked strained. “Meeting’s delayed. Jasper’s got the conference room.” He jerked his chin toward the stairs. “Some TV producer making a pitch.”

The words hit like a body check I should’ve seen coming. Some TV producer.

“Staff meeting pushed back an hour,” Hoss continued, following me to the staff lockers. “You want to grab coffee?”

But my attention had snagged on the conference room level. Television producer could mean a lot of things, but combined with the Renegades brass being in town... My gut twisted. I shed my skates, slid into a pair of Nikes.

“Rain check,” I said, already moving toward the stairs. “Need to check something.”

My knee held steady as I climbed, proof that the surgery had done its job. But my heart thundered against my ribs for entirely different reasons as I reached the upper level.

Through the glass walls of the conference room, I caught sight of perfectly styled hair and an expensive suit that screamed Hollywood. Malone. Looking exactly like he had in Austin, radiating that particular brand of smarm that set my teeth on edge.

But it wasn’t Malone that sucker punched me. It was the woman standing at the head of the table—Lily, all professional polish in a pants suit that made her legs look a mile long. Dark hair swept back in a sleek ponytail. The first time I’d seen her at the patio bar, she’d had her pretty hair swept up in a messy bun. Strands slipping free to tease at the curve of her cheek. The memory flashed in my brain, had me sucking in a steadying breath.

“Don’t believe that,” Malone’s voice carried through the door. “I fired her. That’s why she’s here, trying to scrape something together.”

Malone’s practiced smile flashed—the same smile he’d worn in Austin while demanding more drama, more controversy, more exposed vulnerabilities. While pushing Lily to compromise everything she believed in.

The truth hit like a sledgehammer. He was about to do it again. About to take everything she’d built here and twist it into something designed for clicks and views rather than actual stories.

“That’s not true!” Adele sprang to her feet, her voice sharp with fury. “We were already on our way out. After you threatened to fire her when she pitched the tribute episode. Called it ‘wholesome bullshit’ and said if she made it, she was done.”

Walk away, my brain screamed. Not your problem anymore.

Except I couldn’t. Not after watching that tribute episode she’d left behind. Not after seeing how she’d captured not just my career, but my heart. How she’d shown who I really was, even while I’d been too stubborn to let her explain.

She’d shown my heart, but she’d shown her own, as well.

I hung back in the hallway, instincts built over seventeen seasons kicking in. Scan the angles. Read the room.

Through the glass, Lily stood by the display screen, calm on the surface. But her fingers drifted to her wrist—to that spot. The one she touched when her emotions felt out of whack.

“Perhaps we should focus on their current work—” Miller Pendleton’s voice carried through the door as someone shifted in their seat.

But Malone cut her off, his words slithering through the gap. “Why trust someone who’s already proven willing to sacrifice a player’s career for ratings?”

The accusation scraped against my nerves like a badly sharpened skate blade. Fucking rich, coming from the man who’d demanded more controversy, more drama, more exposed weakness. Who’d twisted everything until Lily broke under the pressure.

I could still hear her voice from that video she’d left me. I fell in love with you somewhere between trying to tell your story and actually seeing you. Raw honesty in every word, even knowing I might never watch it.

Through the glass, Lily might be managing to hold her neutral expression, but even at this distance, I caught the trembling of her hands. The way she squared her shoulders.

The memory of finding that thumb drive in my duffle rolled through me. Of finally watching it after too many nights drowning my anger in whiskey. Of seeing how she’d woven together not just my career highlights, but the quiet moments. The real legacy I’d built.

She’d risked everything to tell that story. To show the truth instead of chasing ratings.

And now here was Malone, trying to destroy everything she’d built since leaving Austin. Since choosing integrity over fame.

Walk away, that voice in my head warned again. She made her choice.

But she’d made another choice too. Had walked away from Malone’s influence to build a production company focused on honest stories. The youth hockey footage playing behind her proved it—raw talent and determination captured without manipulation. Real kids learning to love the game, mentors passing on their passion, a community coming together around shared dreams.

These were the stories that mattered. The ones that showed what hockey could be when you stripped away the pressure for views and ratings.

“You want access to my players?” Trasier’s voice carried into the hall. “After what you did to Vignier?”

My jaw clenched. Yeah, she’d hurt me. Had taken my trust and turned it into prime-time entertainment. But she’d also shown me something I hadn’t been ready to see—that my legacy wasn’t measured in Cup rings or scoring titles, but in the lives I’d touched. The players I’d mentored. The game I’d helped shape.

Now it was my turn to show what I’d learned about trust. About second chances.

Before I could overthink it, I reached for the door handle. Time to put my money where my mouth was. To prove I’d learned something about trust and forgiveness since hanging up my skates.

Time to show Lily that second chances went both ways.

“You want to know who she really is?” My voice cut through the bullshit like a fresh-sharpened blade through ice. “Then let me tell you.”

The conference room fell silent the instant I stepped inside. Every eye locked on me, but I focused on Malone’s face—on how his practiced smile slipped just a fraction. Good. Let him sweat.

“Jack.” Jasper’s voice carried that particular weight of old money and influence. “I wasn’t aware you had input on this matter.”

“With respect,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline pumping through my veins, “I’m the one whose career was supposedly sacrificed for ratings. Think that gives me authority.”

Through my peripheral vision, I caught Lily’s sharp inhale. The slight tremor in her hands. But I kept my attention on Jasper and Trasier—on the men whose opinions actually carried weight in this room.

“You want to talk about the episodes that aired?” I gestured to where Malone sat. “Let’s talk about the pressure you put on her. About how you demanded controversy, demanded drama, used her desperation to get back into the industry to force her hand.”

“Now wait a minute—” Malone started, but Millsy cut him off.

“Actually,” she said, tapping her bejeweled tablet, “let’s talk numbers. The tribute episode hit Stanley Cup Final viewing levels.” Her smile carried sharp edges. “Seems the league owners are quite interested in that kind of engagement. Authentic storytelling that connects with viewers? That’s worth more than manufactured drama.”

“The ratings aren’t the point,” I said, my voice carrying the same authority I’d used to quiet a locker room. “What matters is she chose to tell the truth. To show what hockey really means—not just the highlights or the controversies, but the heart of the game. She risked everything to get that right.”

“And got better results,” Millsy added, her smile widening as Malone shifted uncomfortably. “Funny how that works.”

Trasier’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying you support giving her access to our players? After what happened in Austin?”

“I’m saying she’s the only one in this room I’d trust to tell their stories right.” The words came fierce, certain. “She sees beyond the highlights. Beyond the stats. She shows the heart of the game—the kid staying late to work on his edges, the veteran teaching face-off tricks, the pure joy of improvement.”

I gestured to the youth footage still playing behind her. “Look at what she’s built here. Real stories about real players. No manipulation. No manufactured drama. Just honest moments that remind us why we fell in love with this sport in the first place.”

Lily’s eyes met mine for a split second, something raw and vulnerable in their depths before she looked away. But I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

“You want to know who she really is?” I turned to face Jasper directly. “She’s someone who walked away from Hollywood success because she wouldn’t compromise her integrity. Who chose to tell authentic stories even knowing what it would cost her.” My voice dropped low, intense. “The kind of person you want shaping how the world sees your players.”

Silence stretched through the room. Heavy. Charged.

Then Jasper smiled—just a slight curve of his lips, but I’d spent enough time in hockey to recognize a win when I saw one. “Well said, Mr. Vignier.” He turned that sharp gaze to Lily. “I believe we have some details to discuss.”

“Now hold on—” Malone pushed away from the window, but Millsy cut him off.

“And I believe we’re done here, Mark.” Her designer heels clicked against the floor as she opened the door. “I’ll have my assistant show you out.”

I caught Lily’s eye as Malone slithered past, letting her see the truth in my face. The trust. The respect. Everything I hadn’t been ready to show in Austin. Everything I’d denied until her video cracked me wide open.

Her lips trembled, but she gave me a slight nod. Understanding passed between us without words.

We had more to discuss. More to resolve. But for now, this was enough. I nodded to the others, then headed to my office.

My phone buzzed before I’d made it halfway down the hall. Dad’s name lit up the screen. For the first time in months, I didn’t hesitate to answer.

“You got a minute, son?”

“Yeah, Dad.” I leaned against the wall, surprised by the unusual softness in his voice.

“Your mother and I watched that tribute episode again last night.” His voice roughened with emotion. “Got me thinking maybe I spent too much time focused on Cup rings instead of seeing everything else you built. The lives you touched. The example you set.”

My throat tightened. “Dad...”

“Let me finish. When you were in Juniors, you stood up to that coach who was bullying your linemate. Remember that?”

“Course I do.” The memory hit hard—my first real moment of stepping in, of refusing to let a teammate take the hit alone.

“That’s when I knew you’d be a leader. Not because you were the best player—though you were damn good—but because you knew your teammates mattered and weren’t afraid to fight for them.” He cleared his throat. “Watching that tribute, seeing all those players talk about how you helped shape them... That’s the legacy that matters, son.”

I pushed off the wall, something loosening in my chest that I hadn’t even known was tight. “I thought you’d be disappointed. About the knee. About retiring without—”

“The only thing that could disappoint me is if you stopped being the man who stands up for what matters.” His voice carried fierce pride now. “This development center of yours? Teaching the next generation? That’s exactly where you should be.”

“Thanks, Dad.” The words came rough, but heartfelt.

“Now, between us we have to come up with a way to convince your mother she doesn’t need to pack a month’s worth of food for you. You moved to Virginia! She’s sure you must be missing Tourtière of all things. Did she think you had them in Austin? Your mother and her ideas. She informed me this morning I’d need to make room for sauce à la viande in my carry-on. Time to come up with a story, son, because I am not packing all this food...”

I laughed, the sound coming easier than it had in months. Because maybe this was better than any Cup ring—having my father see me, really see me, for who I was rather than the dreams he’d had for me. Took more than thirty years, but it damn sure felt good.