Page 10 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

I lined up to take a check from Knox—nothing malicious, only good hard contact to simulate game conditions. When I braced for the hit, something gave way across my shoulders.

My shoulder pad strap had snapped. Not only loose, but completely severed. It had probably been wearing down for weeks. The pads shifted dangerously, leaving my shoulders exposed.

"Hold up!" I called, skating to the bench.

Our equipment manager, a grizzled guy named Pete, examined the damage and shook his head. "This is toast. Let me see what I've got in the back."

He returned five minutes later with an apologetic expression. "Nothing that's gonna fit you properly. All the spares are sized for smaller guys."

As I sat on the bench, Gideon appeared.

"What's the problem?"

Pete explained the situation. Without a word, Gideon headed to his stall and pulled out a spare set of pads.

"Here." He handed them over, our fingers brushing during the transfer. "Should work."

I turned the pads over in my hands, testing the weight.

The straps were worn smooth in places where Gideon's fingers had worked them thousands of times.

One of the buckles had been replaced with a slightly different style—the kind of repair you make when you can't afford new gear but need the equipment to last.

"Thanks."

I worked the straps to fit my shoulders. The pads were slightly too big but functional. More importantly, they smelled like Gideon—soap, deodorant, and a hint of his cedar cologne.

Back on the ice, wearing his gear felt protective in more ways than one.

Every time I moved, I thought about his body and how the equipment fit differently on him.

The straps had been adjusted to his measurements, broken in by his routines, and shaped by his habits.

Dad's contacts could probably get me better equipment—newer, more expensive gear, but none would ground me like Gideon's.

When practice ended, I delayed returning to the locker room, balking at giving up the physical connection.

The team house was quiet by the time I returned home. Linc and Pluto had gone out for dinner and a movie. Knox was probably at his usual bar, complaining about the world to anyone listening.

I tried to sleep but couldn't shake the circular thoughts about practice, the phone call with Dad, and wearing Gideon's shoulder pads for two hours. I padded downstairs at 2 AM, throat dry, knowing sleep was a lost cause.

The kitchen was dark except for the glow of the microwave clock. I was reaching for a glass when I heard it - fast, shallow breathing from our shared living room.

Bricks sat on the couch in boxers and a t-shirt, hunched forward with his head between his knees. His shoulders were shaking.

"Hey." I kept my voice low, non-threatening. "You okay?"

He looked up, face pale and slick with sweat. "Can't—can't breathe right. I keep thinking about—" His chest hitched. "Getting canned. Coach gave me that look after the turnover. Like he's already done with me."

I sat on the coffee table across from him, close but not crowding. "When's the last time you ate?"

"I don't know. Lunch, maybe?"

"Your blood sugar's probably shot." I went to the kitchen and came back with a granola bar. "Eat this first. Then we'll talk."

He managed a few bites while I waited. His breathing was still rapid, but some color returned to his face.

"Better?"

"A little."

"Good. Now tell me what Coach actually said to you today."

Bricks blinked. "He didn't say anything."

"Right. So you're panicking about a look?"

"It wasn't just a look—"

"Damn, I've seen Coaches happy, pissed, confused, and hungover. His resting face reads serial killer on break time. That's not about you."

A ghost of a smile. "Really?"

"Really. Last week, he gave Knox the same look, and Knox's been here four years." I leaned back, making myself comfortable. "You want to know something? My second year in juniors, I threw up before every single game for a month."

"Bullshit."

"Scout's honor. Nerves, pressure, whatever. My linemate finally asked whether I had the flu or was pregnant."

Bricks laughed despite himself. "What did you do?"

"Crackers. Kept a stash in my bag so I didn't hurl during practice.

" I shrugged like it was nothing. "Anxiety's the same as a broken skate—you patch it however you can.

" My dad's version of fixing things was pressure and deals, never listening to someone at two in the morning when the walls closed in.

Bricks's breathing slowed to normal. The shaking stopped.

"You think the team's gonna cut me?"

"I think you played solid hockey today, and you're obsessing over one bad pass. That's not a player who's getting cut. That's a player who cares too much."

"Is that bad?"

"Depends. Caring's fine—until you lose sleep over facial expressions. Then it's a problem."

He nodded slowly. "How do you turn it off?"

"You don't. You just get better at managing it." I stood. "Come on. See if you can get some sleep before morning."

I was halfway up the stairs when I heard a door creak open above me.

Gideon appeared at the top of the landing in sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, hair sticking up like he'd been tossing in bed. He paused when he saw me, taking in my appearance.

"Everything okay? Heard voices downstairs."

"Bricks. Panic attack." I climbed the remaining steps. "He was spiraling—scared of getting cut."

"He's alright now?"

"Yeah. Fed him, talked him down. He'll be okay."

Gideon nodded, studying my face in the dim hallway light. "You couldn't sleep either?"

"Life on repeat." I tapped my head. "You know how it is."

"Yeah." He was quiet for a moment. "What you did down there matters—more than most people realize."

"Someone did the same for me once," I said.

"Maybe, but you didn't have to. You chose to."

Before I could respond, he squeezed my shoulder—quick, firm contact that conveyed more than words could. His thumb brushed the edge of my collarbone through my t-shirt.

"You're a good man, Thatcher."

He said my name in a quiet, certain voice. Thatcher. The person. I couldn't remember the last time my father had said anything about who I was rather than what I could accomplish.

Gideon opened his mouth like he might say something else, then seemed to think better of it.

"Thanks," I managed.

He nodded once—barely perceptible in the dim light—then stepped back toward his door. "Try to get some sleep."