Page 11 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter eight

Gideon

A fter our pre-road trip logistics meeting ended, I lingered in the conference room, pretending to review my notes while the coaching staff filed out. The hotel assignment sheet hung on the whiteboard, and Wren's neat handwriting organized twenty guys into ten pairs.

Drake, T. / Lincoln, M.

I stared at Thatcher's name until my eyes burned. Linc was the safe choice—professional, appropriate.

My hand hovered over the eraser.

What are you doing, Gideon?

I'd maintained perfect professional distance from the other players for three years and never crossed lines. Never put my own desire ahead of team needs. The marker felt heavy in the fingers of my other hand.

One night in his bedroom doesn't change the rules.

When I thought about Thatcher rooming with someone else—laughing with Linc, confiding in him the way he'd confided in me—I had a sharp pang in my gut.

"Pluto and Linc together make more sense," I muttered, already erasing. "Better team chemistry." I erased Linc's name and wrote mine in careful block letters.

Drake, T. / Sawyer, G.

"Micromanaging your line again?"

Knox's voice made me jump. He stood in the doorway, gear bag slung over his shoulder, smirking like he'd caught me stealing from the cookie jar.

"Leadership." I capped the marker.

He studied the board for a long moment. "Right. Our fearless leader."

After he left, I stood alone with what I'd done. Someone had to make sure Thatcher kept his head down on this trip. Someone had to watch out for him.

It wasn't leadership. It was efficient resource allocation.

Grimmy's voice crackled over the radio the next morning as our team bus pulled out of Richmond. He piloted the equipment van rolling behind us.

"The reaping shall begin in approximately three rest stops," came his muffled announcement from inside the skull. "Current weather conditions: slightly ominous with a chance of victory. Traffic report: I can't see shit, but we're moving."

The bus erupted in laughter. Pluto grabbed the radio. "This is Pluto checking in. Any updates on the jockstrap situation?"

"Affirmative. The jock has claimed its own seat and is demanding meal service. We're considering adding it to the roster."

I shook my head. Grimmy's commentary had become a team tradition on road trips—part standup routine, part motivational speech, and all chaos.

Across the aisle, Thatcher pressed himself against the window, shoulders shaking with laughter. He tipped his head back, exposing his throat, while his eyes crinkled shut. Completely unguarded.

How does someone with so much wreckage behind him still laugh like that?

I tried to look away, but couldn't.

He caught me staring and smiled. I turned back to the playbook in my lap. I stared at the diagrams until they blurred into abstract art.

The hotel was standard road trip fare—beige everything, industrial carpet, and ice machines rattling. I collected our room keys while the team clustered around the lobby, comparing room assignments and negotiating trades.

I handed Thatcher his key card. "Room 314."

Pluto overheard and grinned. "You two better keep it down. Some of us need our beauty rest."

"Impossible task for you," Knox mumbled.

In the elevator with Thatcher, I counted floors and tried not to think about how small hotel rooms were. There was nowhere to hide from whatever was growing between us.

The doors opened. "Rooming together makes sense. Less commotion."

A knowing smile played across Thatcher's face. "Sure. Captain's privilege."

The room was as tight as I'd feared. Two beds separated by a nightstand, one sad desk, and a bathroom barely large enough to turn around in.

I set my bag on the bed farthest from the door out of habit, then noticed Thatcher watching me unpack.

"Problem?"

"Thinking." He tossed his duffel onto the other bed. "You always this methodical?"

"I like to keep things organized."

"Right." He watched me fold my dress shirt. "God forbid anything gets wrinkled."

"Mock my systems all you want. They work for me."

"I'm not mocking. It's kind of reassuring."

I looked up. The teasing smile had faded, replaced by something vulnerable. It made it hard for me to breathe correctly.

Not knowing what to do with that expression, I announced, "Team meeting in twenty," and returned to my unpacking.

The visiting locker room smelled like industrial disinfectant and decades of sweat. I spread out my gear. Stick tape. Where was my stick tape?

After checking my bag twice, I scoured the equipment bin. The roll I'd been using all season—the one in my glove during our three-game winning streak—was gone.

Panic fluttered in my chest. Stupid, superstitious panic, but real nonetheless.

Then, I saw it. Thatcher casually wrapped his blade with my tape, the distinctive blue and white striping I'd special-ordered.

I opened my mouth to say something. Closed it.

Let him have it. If it helps him feel steadier... let him have all the luck I've got.

"Did Sawyer just give up Excalibur?" Linc's voice carried across the room.

I shrugged, reaching for a generic roll from the equipment supply. "He probably needs it more than I do."

Thatcher looked up, meeting my eyes.

It wasn't about tape. It was about choosing him over control, superstition, and the careful systems that had kept me safe for years.

The game started ugly. We were flat, tentative, and playing like visitors who didn't belong. The crowd sensed it—minor league rink, but major league hostility. Every hit drew cheers, and every missed pass brought jeers.

Then, Thatcher turned everything around.

Second period, neutral zone, puck bouncing loose from a scrum. He materialized like he'd predicted the chaos, scooped it up one-handed, and threaded a no-look pass through traffic that landed on my blade.

I buried it top shelf, short side, before their goalie could blink.

The opposing crowd was silent. Our bench erupted. Coach cracked a smile.

I turned my attention to Thatcher, who was skating backward with his arms raised, grinning from ear to ear. We'd created a moment on the ice bigger than the sum of its parts.

The goal shifted everything. Our bench was electric, guys banging sticks against the boards. The crowd—hostile thirty seconds earlier—hushed. We'd stolen their momentum.

I skated past Thatcher on the way to our end, and he tapped my shin with his stick. "Beauty pass," I said.

"Beauty finish." His eyes were bright and alive.

We controlled the game for three shifts: crisp passes and solid defensive play. Even Knox looked loose out there. Coach nodded approvingly from behind the bench. It was the hockey we were capable of when everything clicked.

For thirty more seconds, everything was perfect.

Then it all went to shit.

Thatcher was cycling behind their net, protecting the puck along the boards, when their defenseman came in late and high. Legal hit, but brutal—caught him with his head down and drove him face-first into the glass.

He crumpled.

I was on the move before my brain caught up, charging across the ice. The defenseman peeled off, already skating away, but my body didn't care. I veered toward him, adrenaline roaring.

"You think that was clean?"

He didn't even turn around. Smug bastard.

I lunged a step—and Knox caught me from behind, yanking me back like I was about to throw hands.

"Sawyer!" he barked. "Easy, Cap. Easy."

I twisted in his grip, eyes still locked on the D-man's retreating back.

It wasn't easy to retreat. Not when Thatcher was still down. Not when I couldn't tell if he was moving.

He hadn't looked up.

I'd given him my lucky tape. I let him take the one thing I never gave up.

And he still got wrecked.

The trainers swarmed him. Static filled my ears.

I couldn't move until I saw him blink.

He pushed himself to his hands and knees. The crowd murmured with relief, but he stayed down too long, shaking his head like he was trying to clear fog.

Coach sent him straight to the hospital for concussion protocol. I watched him disappear down the tunnel, and the rest of the game passed in a blur of penalty kills and clock management.

We won 3-1, but the final score was meaningless for me.

In the visiting locker room, Coach fielded questions from local media about Thatcher's condition. I caught his eye as he wrapped up interviews.

"Someone needs to get Drake from the hospital." He jingled his rental car keys.

"I'll go."

Coach paused, studying me. "You sure? Long day already."

"He'll want a familiar face. And I'm not tired." Both true, though not the entire truth.

He tossed me the keys. "Bring him straight back to the hotel. No detours."

The hospital parking lot was nearly empty when I arrived, with sodium lights painting everything a harsh orange. Thatcher emerged from the automatic doors looking smaller than usual, wearing his hospital bracelet, and moving like everything hurt.

"You okay?" I asked as he slid into the passenger seat.

"Been better." He winced as he fastened his seatbelt. "No concussion, thankfully. Only feels like I got hit by a truck instead of a defenseman."

"Cleared to play?"

"Doc says yeah, but wants me taking it easy for a day or two. No hitting drills, apparently."

I pulled out of the parking lot, headlights cutting through suburban darkness. The radio played soft rock at a low volume. The car smelled like rental company disinfectant and Thatcher's lingering hospital soap.

Thatcher spoke quietly. "You were ready to kill that guy."

My hands tightened on the steering wheel. "You didn't move. I thought—"

I couldn't finish. Couldn't say that for ten seconds. I thought I was watching him break. That the idea of hockey without him was impossible.

"I thought you were seriously hurt."

"Would that matter?"

The question hung between us, but I couldn't find an answer and stared at the road straight ahead.