Page 31 of Unleashed

“You have plans after practice tomorrow?”

She blinked up at me, confusion warring with curiosity in those incredible eyes. “You have something in mind?” Her voice feathered against my skin, light and sweet.

“I’ll pick you up after work.” I cupped her cheek, slid my thumb over the smooth skin of her jaw, then down to the curve of her neck. “Dress comfortably.”

She smiled and my heart kicked into a gallop. Satisfaction rolled through me as a sparkle lit her eyes. We’d turned a corner. No more fighting this thing between us.

I dipped down for one last taste, quick before I lost control again. Pulled back before I could give in to the urge to carry her straight to bed.

Tomorrow. We had tomorrow.

Coachblewawhistleand I skated toward the bench with the rest of the Aces. I extended my knee as I moved, testing which position hurt less than another, my breath catching in my throat as the pain flared and ebbed with the motion. Some days were worse than others. Today I’d put it at a seven on a scale of one to ten, which meant if I wasn’t careful, I was that much closer to being exposed.

“Moving slow, old man,” O’Leary called, his voice a sharp crack across the ice. The younger center glided ahead of me, holding the door open as I trailed behind him. “Let me get this for you. Age before beauty!”

“Yeah, yeah.” I shot him a grin that hid the truth, stomping down the tunnel to the locker room.

O’Leary’s joke stabbed deeper than he knew. He might toss around “old man” with a smirk, but when game time hit, he’d expect Captain Jack Vignier at full throttle. With my knee feeling like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, what kind of performance could I actually deliver? My eyes swept the locker room, landing on familiar faces mixed with fresh meat. A couple hungry AHL call-ups skated with us this week, hovering like vultures. Ready to swoop in at the first sign of weakness. Silver sat in his usual spot, already carrying himself like a captain. He’d wear my C next year, lead my boys into battle season after season while I... what? What did I want to do?

The team would roll on without me. Hockey always did.

But this was my last chance.

The thought hammered inside my skull like a migraine, coloring everything. Every practice. Every game. Every goddamn moment. This was it. My final shot. And I’d crawl over broken glass before I’d hang up my skates without ever hoisting the Cup.

More players filtered in from the practice ice and weight room, filling our sanctuary with the chaos of male voices, equipment clattering, and music blasting. The wall of sound nearly drowned out Coach Mack when he approached.

“You alright, Vig?” His voice dropped low and rough, like he hated asking the question as much as I hated hearing it. He’d spent the year reconstructing our playbook, honing our strategy, pushing us toward playoffs with everything he had. His eyes locked on mine, the unspoken question hanging between us as heavy as a penalty: Could he trust me to deliver when it mattered?

“Just a little tight.” I avoided his eyes, yanking off my pads, my fingers digging into the worn leather.

“You’re going to have to loosen up.” Coach’s voice dropped low, his focus sharp enough to flay skin. My stomach churned. “We need you firing on all cylinders.”

“All good, Coach.” I pushed my lips into what passed for a smile these days. Captain Jack Vignier at your service, steady as a rock.

But Mack hadn’t survived twenty years behind NHL benches by missing what players tried to hide. His eyes caught every wince, every subtle shift of weight off my bad side. For now, he swallowed whatever doubts chewed at him. Trusted me to do right by the team.

And fuck if that didn’t twist the knife deeper.

Doing right by the team.The mantra I’d lived by since they first stitched the C onto my jersey. Not what Jack Vignier wanted, but what the Aces needed. For seventeen seasons, that choice shone clear as center ice after a fresh Zamboni run. Whatever served the team best, I did without hesitation.

I’d built my entire career on putting the Aces before myself, before every other consideration.

The question gnawed my insides raw. Stay on the ice and risk becoming a liability, or take the bench like some washed-up has-been? Watch from the press box while my boys battled on without me? The C would still hang on my chest even if I sat it out, but the letter meant nothing if I couldn’t lead from the trenches. Playoff wars turned on split-second battles in the corners. The goals counted, sure, but so did the bone-crushing hits that fired up the bench. The plays that swung momentum couldn’t happen from the goddamn press box. Sensing that momentum, knowing when to fire up the guys and when to hold them back? I couldn’t do that off the ice.

Silver had solid hockey sense. Smart hands. Quick decision-making. But nobody had ever placed the weight of a team’s Stanley Cup drive on his shoulders and asked him to carry the hopes and dreams of more than twenty people through hell.

If I stepped aside, he’d get his chance in the spotlight. Might even hoist the Cup I’d chased for seventeen fucking years. Yeah, my name would still get engraved on the side, but the victory would ring hollow. Empty.

Silver’s triumph, not mine.

Not the legacy I’d sacrificed everything to build.

An hour later, I sank into one of the leather chairs at the front of the conference room, freshly showered and changed into jeans and a button-down. The podium stood empty, waiting, while the LED screen behind it glowed blue-white with our logo. My teammates shuffled in, their voices bouncing off the walls as the coaches filed through the side door.

Coach Mack stepped up to the podium. “Alright, fellas.” His voice boomed through the room, killing the lingering chatter. “You’ve played your last regular season game. Earned some breathing room while Chicago wraps up their schedule. Take these next couple days to recharge. Recover. Get your heads right for the real war ahead.”

He paused, pinning each of us with a stare that’d do a drill sergeant proud. The younger guys whooped and hollered while veterans nodded with tight jaws. My mind raced ahead, though, mapping out the minutes until I’d have to decide—play through pain or admit defeat.

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