Page 83 of Unleashed

“Maybe.” The word came out gruff, but truth was, the idea had been circling like an annoying fly for weeks now. Now that the knee actually worked. Now that retirement felt real instead of some distant threat. “Still figuring things out.” I knew what I didn’t want—sitting in some broadcast booth picking apart other guys’ games, or worse, rotting in my apartment reliving my glory days.

“Speaking of figuring things out...” Riley dug in his ever-present backpack. My muscles locked up before he even pulled out the laptop. “Thought maybe we could watch it together?”

“The last episode ofUnleashed.” Ice filled my voice.

“It’s not what you think, Cap.”

“Not tonight, Puppy.” The words came out hard, controlled. Like facing down an opponent at center ice—shut it down before it got messy.

He nodded, but something in his expression had my guard up. “Thing is... I was talking to Adele earlier. You know, on the phone. Since she’s not here anymore. She calls to check up on me, though. Says someone has to make sure I’m not living on pizza and energy drinks.”

The air shifted. Thickened. “Adele.”

“Yeah.” His voice turned careful, and even the change in his voice grated against my skin. “She told me about this production company she and Lily started. In Mapleton, Virginia. Near Uncle Hoss’s place.”

Virginia.

My jaw locked. “Think that’s enough bonding for one night.” I pushed to my feet, movement measured. Controlled. Like I wasn’t fighting the urge to put my fist through something. “Some of us have physical therapy in the morning.”

“Cap—”

“Go home, Puppy. Get some rest.” I softened my tone, because this wasn’t his fault. None of it was. “Tell Silver I said to work on your backcheck when you get to training camp in the fall.”

He gathered his stuff, knowing better than to push. But he paused at the door. “Just... watch it sometime, okay? When you’re ready?” His grin flashed, big and toothy, but worry lurked in his eyes. “And you’re not getting rid of me, Viggy. I’ll bring you my Aunt Rae’s hangover cure in the morning.”

After he left, I poured another whiskey. The thumb drive sat on my coffee table, right where it had sat since I found it buried in my duffle bag. I hadn’t touched it. Didn’t need to. Whatever was on it wouldn’t change a damn thing. But her handwriting still cut through me.

For Jack.

I poured another, the amber liquid caught the dim light, the tumbler solid in my grip—something real, something to hold onto while my life faded into memory. First sip burned, fire down my throat that didn’t come close to touching the bitterness lodged in my chest. Second sip went down smoother. Third slid like warm honey, thick and numbing.

The silence in my apartment pressed in, broken only by the soft clink of ice against glass. Each swallow brought memories closer to the surface—her laugh in my kitchen, the scent of her shampoo on my pillow, the way she’d look at me like I was worth seeing beyond the captain’s C.

The whiskey softened the edges, but it couldn’t stop the parade of images. Couldn’t quite blur the memory of her curled in my chair, that damn laptop balanced on her knees while she worked. The way she’d bite her lip when she concentrated. How she’d...

She’d made her choice. And I’d made mine.

The alcohol pulled me under eventually, dreams tangling with reality until I couldn’t tell reality from fiction. Images of the Blue Ridge Mountains filled my whiskey-soaked dreams. Big and solid and unchanging. Through it all, those sea-glass eyes that mesmerized.

I woke up with a neck that felt like I’d taken a board check from behind. My head throbbed, mouth dry as shit. Sunlight sliced through the windows, turning my hangover into something vicious and mean.

The whiskey bottle stood empty next to her thumb drive, the two things on my coffee table I should’ve known better than to mess with. My pulse hammered against my temples, but through the fog of bad choices, Hoss’s words hit like a punch to the gut.

“Sometimes the best plays aren’t the obvious ones, Vignier. Sometimes you gotta trust your instincts over your game plan.”

My phone sat within reach. Hoss’s last message glaring out from the screen.

Virginia.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Viggy

Hockey Rule #99: If the fire’s still in your gut, you’re not done yet

Media Rule #99: Polish the setting all you want—people still want the story

TheThreeCornersHockeyDevelopment Center didn’t try to be a mini NHL facility. Less flash, more grind. Raw functionality over corporate shine. My knee barely complained as I followed Hoss through the main entrance, the familiar scent of Zamboni-fresh ice and effort wrapped around me like a warm welcome home.

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