Page 76 of Unleashed

The locker room smelled of athletic tape and victory and memory. Every corner held glimpses of moments I’d captured through my lens, moments that had changed me forever. Jack reviewing plays with Silver. Teaching Riley proper face-off technique. Leading by quiet example even when his knee must have been screaming.

Time to go.

I forced myself to turn away, each step toward the door feeling like lead. This was the right choice—walking away before I could do more damage. Before I could compromise anything else that mattered.

Adele waited in the hired car outside, our bags already loaded. Virginia and a fresh start beckoned. A chance to tell stories that mattered, to be the person Jack had made me brave enough to become.

“Ready?” Her smile held equal parts sympathy and determination.

I slid into the passenger seat, not trusting myself to look back at the building that had housed so many beginnings and endings. “Yeah.”

The sun crested the horizon as we pulled away, painting everything in shades of possibility. Somewhere behind us, a thumb drive waited. A confession. A tribute.

A goodbye.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Viggy

Hockey Rule #72: You’re only as good as your last shift

Media Rule #72: Today’s headline erases yesterday’s career

Painrippedthroughmyknee as I dug in for the face-off. Sweat trickled down my spine, my jersey soaked through despite the chill coming off the ice. We’d battled Richland through two periods, trading goals, trading hits, both teams leaving everything on the ice.

Down by one in the third. Bare minutes left in Game Seven. We win, we move on. We lose, my time comes to an end.

My whole fucking career came down to the next few shifts.

The official held the puck high. Richland’s center, Fournier, shifted his weight, telegraphing which way he’d move. Been playing against the guy for a decade. His left skate angled out a fraction—dead giveaway.

The puck dropped.

Pure instinct triggered. Years of muscle memory kicked in. My stick snapped through the draw, sending the puck back to Han. Clean win, despite the fire in my knee.

“That’s it, Cap!” Riley’s voice carried over the crowd noise as he streaked past, chasing the play up ice. Still had that rookie enthusiasm, even after the beating he’d taken this series.

I powered up the ice after him, each stride sending jolts of agony through my leg. Didn’t matter. Pain was just weakness leaving the body—Dad drilled that into me twenty years ago.

Han quarterbacked from the point, cycling the puck down low. Working their defense, wearing them down. Smart hockey. Patient hockey.

A flash of movement caught my eye—their bruiser zeroing in on Riley as the kid curled behind the net. Fuck that noise.

I cut hard across the slot, putting myself between Riley and the incoming hit. The collision rattled my teeth, sent shockwaves through my busted knee. But the kid maintained possession, threading a pass out front.

“Jesus, Cap.” Han appeared at my elbow as I regained my feet. His eyes held understanding I didn’t want to see. “Let us take some of these.”

I shook him off. “Play your game.”

The shift ground on, my lungs burning as we battled along the boards. Every muscle screaming. But surrender wasn’t in my vocabulary. Not with everything on the line.

Their D-man tried forcing a pass up the middle. I read it coming, stepped into the lane. The puck hit my stick like destiny. Like seventeen years of blood, sweat and tears converging into one perfect moment.

Time slowed.

Through years of instinct, I saw it all laid out like a map—the tiny gap between their defensemen, barely wide enough for a puck. Their goalie had drifted an inch too far from the right goal post, probably anticipating a pass. That sliver of space up high, right where the water bottle perched on top of the net. The kind of shot that’d make the highlight reels if I could thread the needle.

Down by one. Less than a minute left. My last chance.

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