Page 1 of Unleashed

Chapter One

Viggy

Hockey Rule #1: Play for the crest on the front, not the name on the back

Media Rule #1: Personal brand is everything

Twoweeksuntilthelast playoff run of my career.

The thought settled like cement in my gut as I stared through my truck’s windshield at the PR circus unfolding on the shoreline below. A petting zoo and canoe regatta—apparently team management figured my farewell tour needed more family-friendly photo ops. Like watching their captain paddle around Lady Bird Lake would somehow make up for seventeen years ofalmost. All kinds of accolades, but no cup. Fan-fucking-tastic.

My knee screamed in protest, every twinge a stark reminder that I couldn’t afford to waste a single moment of rest. Not now. Not with everything on the line. But here I sat, white-knuckling my steering wheel while some PR genius decided nothing said “Stanley Cup Contender” like a fuckin’ dog and pony show.

The instant I stepped out of my truck, I’d need to be “on.” Captain Jack Vignier, face of the franchise, leader of men.

Not a beat-up warrior skating on borrowed time and sheer stubbornness.

One stupid move a few weeks ago, a hit I should have seen coming, took my knee out from under me and put me in my current position—violating my contract with the Aces by not reporting the truth about my knee.

The same knee I’d torn a meniscus in years ago and which liked to flare up now and then. Hockey was physical; aches and pains came with the territory. Usually, a little TLC and rest did the trick. After seventeen years in the league, I knew how to take my hits and keep on moving.

But this time felt different. The pain hadn’t faded—if anything, it burned hotter with each passing day. Two weeks from playoffs, from my last shot at the Cup, and my body was betraying me in the worst possible way. If I’d torn something—or worse, and the grinding in my knee definitely felt worse—they’d pull me from the lineup faster than a rookie’s first fight.

The lot had filled while I sat brooding, fans streaming past in their Aces gear. No more time to hide. I flicked my sunglasses down over my eyes and hauled myself out of the truck, each movement calculated to hide the weakness in my leg. The sun-warmed concrete at the lot’s edge became my anchor as I leaned against the railing there, taking in the scene below.

Lady Bird Lake stretched out like some demented summer camp fever dream. Canoes and paddleboards dotted the water like floating Skittles, Austin’s skyline towering behind like a disapproving ref. Paddle for the Playoffs—an excuse to parade the team in front of sponsors. Canoe races, yappy dogs, and more cameras than a Habs-Leafs playoff game.

Christ, my knee throbbed.

“Great weather, eh, Viggy?” Some fan’s chirpy voice cut through my dark thoughts. “Can’t ask for better than blue skies for a day on the lake!”

I nodded, even managed a twitch of a smile as the woman passed. The area teemed with a sea of fans decked out in Aces gear, all buzzing with a pre-playoff excitement. The kind of excitement that had the Aces organization seeing dollar signs.

A year ago, I’d have been right there with them, my body humming with that electric charge that only came with playoff season bearing down. Even beat to hell like we all were—bodies mapped with bruises from eighty-two games of grinding it out—I’d have found that spark. Would have turned it on like flipping a switch.

This year, that switch felt broken. Rusted shut. And the smile that used to be second nature had all but disappeared. Or, at least, been buried beneath a landslide of pain and pressure and the weight of a career spent chasing something that kept slipping through my fingers.

The fans deserved better. They wanted their piece of the captain—the good attitude, the autograph, the competition I was known for. Even at something as ridiculous as Paddles for the Playoffs. And I got it, I did. But Christ, my whole future balanced on this knife’s edge of pain, and here I was playing circus ringmaster.

God forbid the Aces organization miss out on a chance to schmooze with the season ticket holders.

God forbid they lose that perfect social media moment—their captain pretending this publicity stunt mattered more than the playoffs looming ahead.

God forbid we put our energy where it belonged—on the ice.

Maybe this was why the team always struggled in the playoffs. Maybe I was the only one around here taking it seriously. Sure as fuck wasn’t management. For them, fan attention trumped all.

As if we could afford to lose our focus at this point in the season.

As if I hadn’t been chasing the Stanley Cup for years, a cup that always seemed just out of reach.

As if a photo op with an excited fan could make up for the empty space on my list of accomplishments.

If I could power through this knee injury, the least management could do was not fuck with my time off.

I shoved away from the cement barrier and forced myself down the steps. Took my time about it, as though I had nowhere better to be. Ignoring the grind of bone on bone with every downward stride.

Bodies packed the deck and picnic areas, event staff trying to control the flow between stations like refs managing line changes. Then I caught sight of the camera guy, his lens already tracking movement in the crowd. My jaw clenched while I counted out a slow breath.

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