Page 77 of Unleashed

Pure fucking instinct.

The puck left my stick like a bullet, sailing through that narrow window between defenders. I caught a flash of panic in the goalie’s eyes as he realized his mistake, saw him lunge desperately. Too late. The shot found that perfect spot, top corner. The water bottle exploded off its perch as the puck slammed into the back of the net. The goal horn screamed, mixing with the thunderous roar of twenty thousand fans who’d been holding their breath.

4–4. Forty-three seconds left.

Riley crashed into me first, screaming something I couldn’t make out over the chaos. The rest of the team piled on, their joy a tangible thing. Raw. Electric. But beneath their celebration, reality settled in my gut like lead. We weren’t done. Extra hockey waited.

My knee felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, but I couldn’t focus on that. Not with overtime looming. Not with everything on the line.

“Line change!” Coach’s voice cut through the chaos.

I gritted my teeth and powered toward the bench. My last regulation shift done. Now came the real test—sudden death overtime.

Theovertimefaceofffeltlike my thousandth of the night. Sweat froze against my neck, my lungs burning with each breath. Twenty-three years of hockey, from peewee to the show, and it all came down to this.

Fournier smirked across the dot. “Hell of a game, Vignier.”

The words hit like a blade between the ribs. But then the respect in his eyes penetrated. The words tasted like goodbye.

Puck dropped. Clean win. Another small victory in a war I was losing by inches.

I sent the puck deep, buying time for a line change. My knee screamed with each stride back to the bench. Coach caught my eye, that look that said he knew. Knew I was running on pure fucking willpower alone.

“You’ve given everything, Vig.” His hand landed on my shoulder. “The boys can—”

“I’m good.” The lie came easy. Familiar as the stick in my hands.

Five minutes into OT, Richland’s top line caught us in transition. A broken play at the blue line. Their sniper finding space where there shouldn’t be any.

I read it coming. Got into position to cut off the passing lane. My knee screamed but held—nearly two decades

of muscle memory and pure determination keeping me in the play.

But hockey’s a game of inches. Of split-second decisions. Of random bounces that define careers.

The puck deflected off a skate, changed direction just enough. Found their man in the slot. His shot painted the corner before our goalie could push across.

Sometimes giving everything you have just isn’t enough.

Silence.

The kind that swallows your soul.

Then the explosion of celebration from their bench. The death knell of sticks and gloves hitting ice as they poured onto the surface.

I pushed to my feet. Captain to the end. Led my team through the handshake line, accepting the respect offered by guys I’d battled against for years. Their words blurred together—good series, hell of a career, thanks for the battles.

“You’re a legend, man.” Fournier’s grip on my hand lingered. “The game’s gonna miss you.”

The fans started it. A slow clap building to a roar. My teammates tapped their sticks against the ice—the universal hockey sign of respect. Even the Richland players paused their celebration, joining the tribute.

My throat closed up. I lifted my stick in acknowledgment, made one final lap around the ice I’d called home for most of my adult life. Each stride a reminder of everything I’d given to this game. Everything it had given back.

The locker room felt like a funeral. Hollow. Heavy. I wanted to say something. Find the right words to lift them up. But for the first time in my career, leadership failed me.

Coach Mack saved me. Gathered them close, spoke about pride and battle and leaving it all on the ice. Said everything I couldn’t through the vice grip around my chest.

I stripped my gear methodically. One piece at a time. The ritual I’d performed thousands of times now feeling like a final goodbye.

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