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Chapter Four

Viggy

Hockey Rule #12: Leadership isn’t about wearing the “C”, it’s about earning it Media Rule #12: Authority comes from follower count

The metallic tang of freshly resurfaced ice hit me the second I shoved through the double doors of the Aces Performance Center. The sharp, cold scent usually lit me up inside. A signal to push harder, skate faster. Today, it coated my tongue with the taste of something foul, bitter.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The countdown echoed in my mind, steady, inescapable. Every beat a reminder of time slipping away. Every step onto the ice a dare testing the limits of how long my body could hold out.

Washed-up players followed the same tired playbook—open a sports bar, grab a commentary gig, whatever. As if breaking down plays for a live audience could ever replace the raw, electric pull of the game itself. My agent labeled them “good opportunities.” But I needed this—one last season, one last chance to prove I wasn’t done. Not yet.

I’d defined my existence with hockey. Without it, who the fuck was I?

The thought churned in my gut as I stepped inside. The racket of the training center slammed into me like a physical blow. The clanging of weights, shouts of encouragement, skates carving ice. Each sound scraped against my last nerve, setting my teeth on edge. Left, right, left. One foot in front of the other.

“Viggy! Hold up a second.”

Jabari Flint’s voice sliced through the noise of the locker room, pulling me up short. The trainer jogged over, his usual megawatt smile lighting up his face. My stomach twisted. After a decade of treating my every twinge and tear, the guy could probably diagnose an injury with a glance from across the room.

The locker room never seemed so far away.

I’d give anything to turn around and walk the other way—leave it all behind, forget about the ache in my knee. I should’ve skipped the weekend’s bullshit at Lady Bird Lake. Should’ve stuck to my routine: ice pack, leg up, good book, cold beer. Lost myself in Sanderson’s latest and not in a crowd of laughing rookies and leaping labs. But no. Instead, I’d sacrificed the only thing that worked and paid the price today.

“Morning.” I kept my voice neutral, practiced. The kind of casual that said “everything’s fine” even as my body made a mockery of the idea. Just don’t limp. Don’t fucking limp.

His eyes narrowed, that smile slipping just a fraction. “You good? You favoring that knee again?”

Another jolt of fire shot up my leg. Breathe. “Same ol’, same ol.” The lie rolled off my tongue, smooth as silk. “You know how it is.”

“Uh huh.” He crossed his arms, not buying it for a second. “Should we set up a special schedule? I can take a look now, make sure it is what you think it is. Got some free time before the rookie needs taping.”

Damn this knee. Fuck me for losing focus at the wrong damn time and taking a hit square on my leg. Idiot move. “Nah, I’m good.” I shifted my weight, careful to keep it even. Natural. Nothing to see here. “Catch up after practice.”

I clapped him on the shoulder as I passed, the gesture deliberately casual. I could still play. I would play. And I’d be damned if I let anyone, especially Ms. Hollywood with her cameras and her all-seeing eyes, steal this last season from me.

As if I’d thought her into being, Lily Sutton sat exactly where I didn’t want her to be. Camped just off the ice, camera crew in position, eyes locked on the players like she owned the narrative already. My stomach knotted. I didn’t need a headline. I needed space to breathe, something in short supply this season.

Let her try, I thought bitterly. My guys were as good as they came and I’d shut her down good over the weekend. But even as I dragged my gaze away, my body hummed with an awareness that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with how she filled out that damn pantsuit.

Except now, thanks to my own damn stupidity, she thought she had a lead. She’d seen me limp. I could still see the flash of concern in her eyes, the way her lips had parted, that unconscious flicker of…something. Curiosity, for sure. Desire? Worry? Hell, maybe it was pity.

She could take her pity and sail off a cliff.

The memory of our encounter by the food trucks—the way her pupils had dilated, the way she’d licked her lips—unconscious tells that betrayed her.

Rookie mistake letting her get close.

We’d been playing this game for months now—her with those big sea-glass eyes that seemed to see straight through my defenses, me trying like hell to keep my distance. The attraction simmered there, dangerous as a loose puck in the neutral zone. She was too damn smart, too ambitious by half, and she wielded those eyes of hers like a weapon. Had half the roster falling all over themselves to give her exactly what she wanted.

But I hadn’t survived seventeen years in the show by being stupid. She represented everything wrong with hockey today—cameras shoved in our faces, microphones catching every curse, private moments turned into prime-time entertainment. Now, with my knee screaming bloody murder? One slip in my game face and she’d have her headline: Veteran Captain Crumbles, Aces’ Playoff Hopes in Jeopardy. Disappoints teammates and fans.

I dragged my gaze from the woman and stepped onto the ice. The chill air rising off the sheet of freshly Zamboni’d ice calmed me better than top shelf whiskey ever could. The glide of my skates, the feel of the puck on my stick, heaven on earth. I slid into my warm-up routine, acutely aware of Sutton with her mic in O’Leary’s face. Nothing unusual in the sight—she grabbed players each week for sound bites and voiceovers—but something about seeing her with him this morning made my skin itch.

Had I scared her off Saturday? Was she moving on to easier prey?

“Vignier!” Sergei Volkov, one of the assistant coaches with the abrasive personality of gravel, slammed his stick against the boards, just in case his aggressive roar failed to draw my attention. “Move your ass! Rush drills, three on two! Let’s go!”

Some staff treated me with deference, either out of respect for my time in the league or being an old man, I didn’t know. But not Sergei. He treated everyone like they were one missed pass away from being sent down to the farm teams.

We lined up, three forwards against two defensemen, a continuous flow of attack and counterattack. The puck slid across the ice, and I dug my skates in, pivoting, my body a shield as I fought for possession.

Sergei barked orders, his words a harsh mix of Russian and English. “Move the puck! Bystro ! Support! Backcheck! You call that a backcheck, Riley? My grandmother hits harder than that!”

The drill wore on, a relentless push up and down the ice until sweat stung my eyes and my lungs burned.

A flash of movement at the side of the ice caught my attention. On the other side of the plexiglass, Sutton perched on one of the benches, her head tilted, a strand of dark hair falling across her cheek. Her attention fixed on a new target. Jabari. She leaned in closer, as though determined to catch his every word. My gut twisted.

“Vignier! What the hell are you looking at?” Sergei’s voice cracked like a whip. “You making moon eyes at your girlfriend?”

I spun away from the sight of Lily, my face heating like I was a twelve-year-old boy called out on his first crush. “Can’t help it, Coach. O’Leary is looking pretty damn good this morning!”

O’Leary pushed off from the boards right in front of Sutton and Jabari, fluttering his eyelashes at me like some B-list actor. The guys lost it—even Sergei’s face contorted into a grimace—his version of a smile. Relief eased the tension from my shoulders as attention shifted to razzing O’Leary. Seventeen years of deflecting had taught me well—give people something to laugh about, and they forget what they were really seeing.

The joke carried me through my next shift, but the burning in my knee kept perfect time with the pounding of my heart. I threw myself into practice, channeling every ounce of frustration into each stride, each pass, each shot. The physical demands gave me something real to focus on, something beyond whatever angle Sutton worked with Jabari.

Whatever juicy nugget she thought she could squeeze out of my trainer didn’t matter. I wouldn’t let it matter. I had the playoffs to think about, a team counting on their captain. Didn’t need the distraction of her all-seeing eyes or the way she made my skin prickle every time she got within twenty feet.

My teammates were good guys. Most of us had been down the playoff path before. But when the regular season closed and the post season began? It was like a switch flipped. Like we all turned the dial up. More intensity, more grit, more determination. Everyone knew the stakes, and the bullshit faded away. It was just about the game, about the guys sharing the ice with you with one prize in mind.

Back in the locker room, Riley catapulted out of the showers to his locker next to mine. Riley would be the exception, being a rookie this year. He’d have a trial by fire.

He bounced closer, his shaggy hair dripping onto his bare chest, a towel around his hips and a grin splitting his lips.

“She smiled at me, Cap.” If possible, his grin grew even wider. “She’s weakening, I can tell. Won’t be long now!”

The idiot had spent the better part of the season chasing after Sutton’s director, Adele. More than a decade between them, but Riley was undeterred. He chased after her like a puppy on a string. And she was about as responsive as a brick wall.

“A smile, huh?” I tugged my jersey over my head, tossing the sweat-soaked uniform toward the hamper. It landed short, but Riley ducked to pick up the crumpled jersey and get it where it belonged.

“What’s the deal with skinny jeans these days? Maybe that’s what she’s used to seeing out in California. Maybe I need to find a pair of skinny jeans.”

Silver snorted from across the room.

“No?” Riley dug into his gym bag, hauled out a pair of underwear. “What about a tattoo, then? Maybe she has a thing for tattoos. Maybe I should get one. Something big and badass like Rempel.”

I unlaced my skates, a grunt escaping my lips. “Kid, a tattoo is not gonna help you with that woman.”

Riley plopped down on the bench beside me, his expression as serious as I’d ever seen it. “Then what, Cap? I’ve tried everything.”

“Scrounge up another ten years and she might give you the time of day.”

Riley’s shoulders slumped and he grew silent. I scratched the back of my head. Maybe that’d been a little too much brutal truth. Before I could think of something else to say, my phone chirped.

My father’s name flashed across the screen. A familiar wave of—not quite dread, not exactly anger, but something close to both—washed over me.

I hesitated, but finally answered.

“Viggy, son!” My father’s voice boomed through the connection, a torrent of French spilling out, every word a reminder of where I came from and who I was supposed to be. “How’re things holding up? This is your year, son. I can feel it!”

The words hit me like a body check, knocking the air out of my lungs. “Yeah, Dad. Working hard.”

We spoke for several minutes. Mostly he spoke and I listened, replying when he seemed to require it. When he paused for a breath, I made up an excuse to hang up.

I shoved the phone in my bag, a pressure building in my chest, tight as a fucking vise. I could feel the weight of Riley’s gaze, and Silver’s from across the room. Two sets of eyes that felt like a million. But where my alternate captain knew when to let things ride, Riley bounced up into my space again, his frustration with getting Adele’s attention forgotten for the moment as he focused on me.

“You good, Cap?”

“Fine.” The word came out sharper than I’d meant, my patience shot to hell after Dad’s call. Between his expectations and this damn knee, I had enough weighing me down without the nuisances of Riley’s puppy-dog concern. “Worry about your own drama, Puppy. Like how you’re gonna keep from passing out when that tattoo needle hits your virgin skin.”

The jab landed exactly as intended—the color drained from Riley’s face. The sight almost made me forget about Dad’s voice in my head, all that talk about ‘my year’ and ‘feeling it’. Almost .

The kid had no business worrying about me when he couldn’t even handle the thought of a little ink without going green around the gills, but hell if I didn’t feel like a dick for taking out my father-induced frustration on him.

Riley stumbled back to his bench. “Right,” he said slowly. “Big tattoo means a lot of needles, I guess, huh?”

Doyle barked out a laugh from where he stood at the end of the locker room. “Gonna turn into a pussy, Riley? That’s right, you still have all your pretty-boy teeth.”

Riley mumbled something about needles being different than slap shots, then retreated back to his locker. Poor schmuck. I rubbed a hand over my face, tireder than I should be after an easy morning practice. If I had a shrink, they’d tell me it was mental exhaustion. Carrying the weight of expectation—my team’s, my city’s, my father’s—and that didn’t even touch on what I wanted for myself.

Or what I wanted after hockey.