Page 1 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter one

Thatcher

I knew I'd hit rock bottom when the Reapers' mascot picked me up from the airport.

Not a driver. Not a staffer. Not even some overworked intern with a clipboard.

Nope. It was a six-foot Grim Reaper with a plastic hockey stick for his scythe and a head that wobbled every time he walked.

"Welcome to Richmond, Drake!" the voice inside the costume boomed, muffled like he was trapped in a coffin. The stick clattered against my duffel bag as he wrestled it off the carousel.

People stared. Phones came out. Somewhere, I was already trending. Again.

"Seriously?" I muttered, jogging after him as he clomped toward the exit. "The team couldn't spring for a car service? I'm one bad TikTok away from the Sin Bin of Shame."

The Reaper tilted his giant skull. "Budget cuts. You're lucky you didn't get the Zamboni guy."

I groaned. This is my life now. Once upon a time, I was hockey's golden boy—a smiley kid with fast hands and a highlight-reel goal on opening night. Now I was a punchline in black-and-neon-green polyester, lugging my own bag behind a mascot named Grimmy.

Outside, the hot, humid August air slapped me. The costume smelled like plastic and stale popcorn. He led me to a battered team SUV with a REAP THE WIN sticker peeling across the bumper. The stick went into the back seat. He kept the head on to drive.

"Is that… safe?" I asked, pointing at his obstructed vision.

He turned, the skull yawing slowly. "Define safe."

"Cool. Love that for me." I buckled up.

We pulled out into traffic. The skull kept tipping like it wanted to nap against the headrest. Between blinks, I caught the skyline, glass, and sun, then a billboard for the Richmond Reapers: a stylized hooded figure skating through smoke.

Minor-league hockey, major-league chaos , the tagline said. Someone in marketing had leaned in.

"Name's Jet," the Reaper said at a light, voice less muffled with the window cracked. "Off days, I sell season tickets. On days like this, I'm living proof karma has a sense of humor."

"Mission accomplished," I said. "I'm Thatcher."

"Everyone knows who you are," he said, not unkindly. "You trended for three days. My nana asked me if all hockey players sing in their underwear."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. The cursed video again. Me, karaoke mic in hand, very little clothing, too much tequila, and a live stream that my agent will never forgive. I'd sung Miley's "Wrecking Ball" like my contract depended on it, then watched it evaporate.

"It was a dare," I said, because that felt better than the truth, which was that I'd been lonely and stupid and needed to feel something that wasn't a backcheck or a brand deal.

Jet snorted. The skull wobbled. "You'll like the guys. Most of them. Try not to flirt with the captain."

"That's a rule?"

"That's a warning."

We rolled into the Reapers' practice facility—square concrete, a stubborn patch of grass out front with a lopsided team sign. Inside, the air switched from swamp to freezer. Fluorescents hummed. Somewhere, a puck pinged off metal.

A woman in tailored black and a lanyard waited by the front desk. Sharp eyes, sharp bob, and sharp clipboard. "Thatcher," she said, offering a hand. "Wren Park. PR. Welcome to the Reapers."

"Pleasure."

"We'll be friends if you like early call times and media training. Do you like early call times and media training?"

I stared at her. "I like… winning?"

"Cute," she said, already turning. "Let's try not to trend for the wrong reason this week."

Jet patted my shoulder with a foam hand. "She means it," he said through the skull. "Wren's the real reaper."

"Go haunt a kid's birthday party," Wren muttered.

He clomped away, skull bobbing. Down the hallway—team posters, skate-with-us fliers, motivational vinyl. WE EARN EVERYTHING, except someone had crossed out EARN and Sharpied in STEAL. Accurate.

She gestured as she walked. "Press room. Coach's office. Gym. If you get lost, ask anyone who looks annoyed—they work here." She stopped at a door and fixed me with those eyes again. "We'll do a short media hit before practice. Smile. Be humble. No karaoke."

"I haven't touched a mic since." That was true. "I'm here to play hockey."

"Good, because the captain is very tired."

"Of what?"

"Everything." She pushed the door open.

The locker room smelled like detergent and old sweat—hockey's universal signature scent. Stalls curved around the walls. A REAPERS logo spread across the carpet. Guys looked up as we walked in—half dressed, taping sticks, and one seated upside down on a stretching bench.

Wren's voice was brisk. "Boys, this is Thatcher Drake. He's a Reaper now. Try not to break him before the cameras get here."

"Can we break him after?" a voice asked.

"After practice," Wren said. "Sawyer?"

A man stood at the far end of the room, and my breath did that weird hitch it does when you realize a photograph didn't do someone justice.

Gideon Sawyer was taller than I expected, with all lean lines and broad shoulders and powerful pecs.

He wore his dark hair cut short, and he had a scar on his chin like a hyphen.

His gaze glided over me how a coach examines a whiteboard—assessing, erasing, moving pieces around.

"Drake," he said. No handshake offered. Not rude. Efficient. "You on time?"

"Jet picked me up."

Someone snorted. "Grimmy's chauffeuring now?"

"Budget cuts," I said.

A half-dozen groans. A roll of stick tape sailed by my head and hit a guy folding towels.

"Drake," Coach barked from his office doorway. He was a stocky man with forearms like tree trunks. "Press in ten. Gear after. You skate second group."

"Got it."

Gideon's eyes met mine. "Phone."

"What?"

"Phone," he repeated, holding out his hand.

I blinked. "Do I look like I'm live? What do you think I am, a walking Twitch?"

"Don't care. No phones in the room. Team rule."

"Oh." I dug it out and handed it over. Our fingers brushed. Current climbed up my arm. His eyes flicked to mine—quick, unreadable, gone before I could be sure I hadn't imagined it. Then he tucked the phone into a metal cubby at the end of the row.

"Your stall," he said, nodding toward an open spot between a guy with a sleeve of bad tattoos and a guy with model-quality cheekbones. "Helmet fitting in five. Don't be a problem."

"I'm never a problem."

The bad tattoos guy grinned—dark blond buzz cut, built thick through the shoulders, a body carved for scrums in the corner.. "That so? I'm Linc. That's Pluto."

"Pluto?" I asked.

Cheekbones shrugged, sharp-jawed and lean enough to look like a model who'd gotten lost on the way to a photo shoot. "Long story. Short version: don't let me choose my own pregame snack."

I glanced at a guy sitting silently two stalls down, head bent over his skates.

"And that's Knox."

He didn't look up, didn't join in the chirps.

Linc shoved a water bottle at me with forearms inked in half-faded dragons. "Welcome to the Bone Yard."

"The what?"

"Our group chat. You'll get an invite if you survive Wren."

As if summoned, she poked her head back in. "Thatcher. Two minutes."

I followed her to the small press room. A local camera guy, a blogger with a phone, and a teenager who wanted a selfie "for my cousin who cries about you" waited like I was the new baby animal at the zoo.

I pasted on a smile and tried to find the version of me who used to do this in his sleep.

The blogger cleared his throat. "Thatcher, what does a comeback mean to you?"

"Earning a spot every day," I said. The correct answer was always a quote you could embroider on a pillow. "Being a good teammate. Helping the Reapers win."

"And the video?" the camera guy asked, sympathetic and nosy in equal measure.

I inhaled. "I made a mistake. I learned. I'm here to work."

"Can you sing something for us?" the teenager blurted. "Sorry. That was mean."

"It was, but no. Unless it's someone's birthday."

A ghost of a smile crossed Wren's face. "That's all. Not bad," she added under her breath. "You didn't combust."

"High bar. What now?"

"Now you meet your helmet." She left me in the equipment room with a man who nearly broke my neck as he measured my head. Ten minutes later, I was back in the locker room, lacing skates, trying not to watch Gideon watch me.

He had the aura of the best captains. Guys orbited him without thinking. A tape job here, a nod there, and a look that sent a rookie back to grab the right stick without a word. He didn't perform leadership. He just did it.

"Skate, second group!" Coach yelled. "Sawyer, you anchor."

Gideon stood. Our eyes met. His jaw tightened, then relaxed. He looked away.

On the ice, my legs remembered what the rest of me kept forgetting: I knew how to skate. Cold air in my throat. Edges biting. The first push always felt like coming up for air.

We ran through warm-up drills. Pass and follow, quick drop passes at the blue line, and breakouts. The Reapers weren't lacking in talent. They were undisciplined. Half the rushes died because someone tried to be cute. Half the zone exits turned into mini disasters. Too familiar.

"Drake!" Coach barked. "You're not cute. Move the puck."

"Copy." I flipped a pass to Linc and cut toward open ice.

Gideon slotted in opposite me for a drill and kept it all business. Good stick. Good gap. Clean when he didn't need to be. He knocked me off a puck near the boards and sealed the lane like a door closing.

I chuckled. "Nice."

"Stop admiring your hair and you'll beat me." He didn't smile.

"Rude. Accurate." My comments brought out a grunt that might have been a laugh if you watered it and left it in the sun.

We finished with battle drills. Two-on-two down low, tight space, quick decisions. The puck popped loose behind the net. Instinct kicked in. I stripped it from Pluto, rolled off the post, and tucked a tight backhand short side before the goalie could seal.

A couple of sticks banged the glass. Knox didn't celebrate—just watched me a second too long, then looked away.