Page 42 of Unleashed

“Need a minute?” Jabari nodded toward the phone.

I pushed to my feet, testing my weight. The familiar fire shot up my leg, but I kept my face neutral. Captain’s mask firmly in place. “Nah, I’ll just find a spot to take this call.”

The call connected as I stepped into the hallway. I slipped into French. “Hey Dad.”

“Jack! Was hoping to catch you before practice.” His voice boomed through the connection, the same voice that had woken me at 5 a.m. for extra skating since peewee. “Big week, eh? First round against Chicago—your boys ready?”

“Working on it.” I leaned against the wall, letting it take some weight off my knee. “Team’s focused.”

“’Course they are, with you leading them.” Pride colored his words, squeezing my chest with memories of frozen, pre-dawn rinks and empty stands. Of pushing through pain because Vigniers never showed weakness. “This year, my son. The Cup’s waiting.”

“So you’ve said.” Dad’s own hockey career had fizzled in the minors—too many games warming the bench until marriage and a baby forced practical choices. An office job. A mortgage. His NHL dreams packed away, dusted off only to polish my own as I moved up the ranks. “Dad—”

“Your mama’splanning quite the menu.” His voice softened around the edges. “Everyone’s coming to watch. The whole street wants to see their boy bring home Lord Stanley.”

My jaw clenched. Seventeen years chasing his dream. Our dream. The family legacy I’d been born to fulfill. A family legacy that had once filled me with pride, but now felt like a weight threatening to pull me under.

“How’s the body holding up?” Casual words, but I knew better. Years of playing through injuries had taught me to hear the message beneath them. Don’t show weakness. Don’t slow down. Not now. Not this close.

“Fine.” Another automatic response. Another lie that tasted like copper on my tongue. “Just the usual wear and tear this time of year.”

Movement caught my eye—Riley hovering at the end of the hall, that puppy dog concern clear on his face. I straightened, squared my shoulders. Let him see his captain in control.

“Good, good.” Dad’s approval scraped against my nerves. “Can’t let anything derail you now. Not with everything riding on this run.”

Everything. The word echoed in my head. My last shot at the Cup. The family pride.

“Gotta go, Dad. Practice.”

“Show ‘em what Vigniers are made of, my son.”

The call ended but the weight stayed. Settled into my bones alongside the grinding pain in my knee.

“Cap?” Riley’s voice carried that mix of worry and hero worship, tightening a band around my chest. “You good?”

“Always good, Puppy.” The lie slid out too easily. I’d had too much practice hiding the truth this season. Teaching him the bad as well as the good of hockey culture. I clapped his shoulder as I passed, ignoring the way his gaze tracked me. Searching for cracks. Weakness. Something his captain couldn’t afford to show. “Let’s go run some drills.”

A captain leads by example. A Vignier never shows weakness.

The mantras drilled into me since childhood roared louder than the pain. Louder than the voice whispering that I was running on fumes. My stride stayed steady, controlled, each step toward the ice a war against the fire in my knee.

The bite of rubber under my skates. The weight of the C on my chest. The legacy carved into my skin, bone-deep.

Even if it broke me in the process.

I glanced back. “Coming, Puppy?”

Riley lit up, that wide-eyed enthusiasm kicking me hard in the gut. His energy usually pulled me up. Today, it just hammered in how much I had to lose.

How much rode on my ability to push through. To be the son my father expected. The captain my team needed.

Gamefilmflickeredacrossmy TV screen, casting blue shadows through my living room. Chicago’s power play formations blurred together after three hours of breaking down the footage. Numbers and stats spun through my brain as I tracked potential weaknesses of the team we’d soon be facing.

Fire shot through my knee as I shifted on the couch. Each twinge counted down the minutes until I couldn’t hide the truth anymore. Maybe it was the pressure of the playoffs. Maybe it was just the wear and tear finally coming to a head. But hiding my pain felt harder tonight. As though I was one step from being outed, one step from someone noticing. Until the coaches or trainers—orsomeone—started asking questions.

Playing through had seemed like a doable plan only a month ago. Now? I couldn’t help but wonder if I was sinking. And would I take my team down with me?

A soft tap of keys drew my attention. Lily sat on my couch, her laptop balanced on her knees while she worked. She wore yoga pants and one of my team shirts. A thin, worn thing that I should have tossed a year ago. But now, the shape of her breasts pushed against the faded letters across the front. She didn’t wear a bra and as she rocked back and forth—a cute habit she had when she was deep into her work—her breasts moved beneath my shirt.

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