Page 81 of Unleashed

I tapped my thumb against my wrist. “Just thinking about tomorrow’s shoot at the track. We should get there early, catch that morning light on the mountains...”

She nodded, but her eyes held understanding. “You know, it’s okay to miss him.”

“I’m fine.” The words came automatically. Lies. I’d never be fine again.

The sunset cast the mountains in shades of violet and gold, the kind of natural beauty that still caught me off guard. Below our window, the Three Corners evening crowd wandered between shops, their unhurried pace wildly different from the frenetic energy I’d known all my life.

My thoughts drifted back to the thumb drive I’d left in his locker that final morning. A final message he probably hadn’t watched—and why would he, after what I’d done? But I’d needed to leave it, needed him to have the option of knowing I’d finally found the courage to tell his story the right way. To do the right thing. Even if he never watched it. Even if I didn’t deserve his forgiveness, much less his understanding.

I hoped one day he understood that he’d taught me better. That I wanted to be a better person after knowing him. Even if I had to do it alone.

My phone buzzed—another local business inquiry. More honest work. The kind that wouldn’t make headlines but might actually matter to someone.

“Meet you at Sugar Squared again tomorrow?” Adele asked as she packed up her gear. “Rae’s testing new muffin recipes.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” I smiled, and this time it felt almost real.

The sun dipped behind the mountains, lighting the room in shades of possibility. Not the future I’d hoped for, maybe. But one I was finally brave enough to choose.

Even if sometimes, in moments like this—when the sunset painted the world in a plum and gold watercolor, when possibility hung thick as mountain mist—I caught myself wondering if Jack would understand why I’d left. Why I’d needed to remember who I was without the weight of compromise.

Why I’d had to learn to tell the right stories, even if it meant telling them without him.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Viggy

Hockey Rule #91: Scars don’t mean you’re ready. Just that you survived

Media Rule #91: Clean edits hide the mess

Docwouldhavemyass for this.

Three weeks post-surgery and my knee felt alien—the constant fire cooled to something manageable. Almost didn’t recognize my own body without pain riding shotgun. Doc had worked his miracle, scraping away destroyed cartilage, realigning the mess I’d made pushing through playoffs. Said I’d be dancing with arthritis down the line, but for now? First time in months I could move without feeling like my leg was gonna explode.

Didn’t mean I should be out here instead of following post-op protocols like a good patient. But lying in bed while my brain spun circles around everything I’d lost? Not happening.

The neon sign of my old sanctuary flickered ahead, half the letters burnt out like always. Inside, the usual collection of odds and ends covered the walls—signed jerseys, vintage beer signs, photographs yellowed with age. The wood of the bar gleamed dull under weak lighting.

I bypassed the bar, something magnetic pulling me straight to the patio. String lights twinkled overhead, creating pools of soft light between shadows. The evening air held that particular Texas weight—not quite stifling, but heavy with the promise of tomorrow’s summer heat.

My usual corner table sat empty. Of course it fucking did.

Citrus and spice ghosted through my senses, an ambush of memory I should’ve seen coming. The way she’d tuck one leg under herself while she worked, that damn laptop reflecting tech blue light on her face. Her cat glaring at the world from that ridiculous backpack. The need to touch her, to drag my fingers through her hair, to taste—

Lock it down, Vignier.

I settled into what used to be my regular chair, leg stretched out more from habit than necessity now. The surgery scars pulled slightly, but the bone-deep ache that had defined my existence had vanished. Felt wrong, somehow. Like losing a piece of myself along with the pain.

The patio buzzed with quiet conversation, regulars seeking refuge from the city’s chaos. But the space felt gutted. Empty in a way that had nothing to do with the number of people. Just another thing that used to matter, back when I was Captain Jack Vignier instead of...whatever the hell I was now.

The string lights shifted overhead, shadows dancing. Another sucker punch of memory—walking her home in the rain, her laughter when I’d complained about her ancient security system. The way she’d felt pressed against me in that narrow hallway, all soft curves and sharp edges. How perfectly she’d fit—

Focus. Future, not the past. One foot in front of the other.

But focus was a game I couldn’t win lately. Harder than admitting my career was done. Harder than accepting that the constant pain that had become my companion was gone, leaving space for other kinds of aching.

I could tell myself I came here to test the knee. To prove the surgery fixed what was broken.

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