Page 13 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter nine

Thatcher

I 'd never been the kind of person who went all-out for Halloween. Growing up, our house had a bowl of fun-size Snickers left on the porch and an attached note that read "Take One Please" because Dad was always working and Mom considered candy distribution beneath her pay grade.

The Richmond Reapers team house was different. It deserved a Halloween loud enough to terrify the neighbors.

"You know this is insane, right?" Pluto asked, holding one end of a particularly ambitious fake spider web while I stretched it across the front porch railing.

"Insanity is dedication without boundaries," I replied, stepping back to survey our work. It looked like something died on our porch and had been lovingly preserved by a gothic Martha Stewart.

"That's not inspirational," Linc called from the yard, where he was jamming glow sticks into empty beer cans and calling it budget Halloween ambiance. "That's concerning."

Bricks emerged from the house carrying a pumpkin nearly the size of his torso. "Drake, where do you want the jack-o'-lantern supplies?"

"Kitchen table. And Bricks? We're carving these like our lives depend on it."

Two hours later, the kitchen looked like a pumpkin massacre. Orange guts clung to every surface, seeds scattered across the floor, and three grown men stood covered in pulp, wielding carving knives like we were preparing for ritualistic sacrifice.

"I can't feel my fingers," Bricks whined, holding up his hands. They were stained orange and shaking slightly.

I lowered my head. "That's the pumpkin paralysis setting in. Very common. Gone by Thanksgiving."

Pluto launched a handful of pumpkin innards at my head. "Pumpkin gut fight!"

"You're all children," Knox muttered from the doorway, but he was already rolling up his sleeves.

The war was swift and brutal.

"Cleanup's going to suck," Linc observed, digging seeds out of his hair.

"Worth it." I surveyed the carnage with pride. "But first—Pumpkin Pong."

"Pumpkin what now?"

I held up two small pumpkins I'd hollowed out earlier. "Like beer pong, but seasonal."

"I love everything about this," Bricks chimed in.

Knox grumbled. "Of course you do."

By the time Gideon showed up at eight, we'd set the knives aside, played four rounds of Pumpkin Pong (Pluto was surprisingly deadly accurate), consumed enough beer to float a small boat, and somehow managed to get most of the pumpkin guts off the walls.

Gideon stepped through the front door, looked at the elaborate spiderweb setup, the glowing beer can luminaries, and the jack-o'-lantern army grinning from every available surface, and said, "This is a fire hazard."

His deadpan delivery made me grin so wide my cheeks hurt. "Probably."

That's when Grimmy clomped in from the kitchen, still in full mascot gear, holding a Polaroid camera like a weapon. "Smile, degenerates." The flash went off, catching Pluto mid–pumpkin chug.

"He doesn't even need a costume," Linc muttered, shielding his eyes.

Grimmy took a bow. "Every major event needs a historian."

Something shifted in Gideon's expression—the barest softening around his eyes. "It all looks good, though."

"Told you he'd love it", Linc whispered loud enough for half the neighborhood to hear.

"Nobody said love."

The doorbell rang, followed immediately by a familiar voice calling, "Thatcher? You better not be dead in there!"

My stomach dropped. "Oh, shit."

"Who's that?" Bricks asked.

I was already moving toward the door. "My sister."

Gina stood on our now-gloriously decorated porch, holding a duffel bag and wearing the same look she'd worn when she picked me up from the ER after I tried a backyard ramp trick at twelve.

The duffel bag bulged with her standard kit: antacids, athletic tape, and the crossword book she never left behind.

"Gina?" I blinked. "What are you—how did you—"

"GPS, little brother. Amazing invention." She looked past me at the Halloween explosion that was our living room, where the guys had frozen like she'd caught them in a team-building exercise gone wrong. "I was expecting... bedlam."

"This isn't chaotic enough for you?"

She stepped inside, taking in the decorations, the lingering smell of carved pumpkins, and the sight of five hockey players covered in various amounts of orange pulp.

Her expression changed. The prepared-for-emergency look faded, replaced by something I couldn't quite read.

"Gina, meet the guys." I gestured around the room. "Guys, my sister Gina. She's the responsible one in the family."

"Debatable," she said.

Pluto stepped forward, still holding a beer can with a glow stick taped to it. "Micah Kowalski, better known as Pluto. Love what you've done with his hair."

"It's the same as it was in high school." She ruffled my hair like I was twelve.

"Some things never change," Linc agreed. "I'm Linc. That's Bricks, Knox, and our captain, Gideon."

I watched Gina glance back and forth between Gideon and me, picking up on something I hoped wasn't obvious.

"Pleasure." Gideon offered his hand.

"Likewise." She shook it, then looked back at me with that expression I'd learned to fear—the one that meant she was putting pieces together. "So, this is the famous team house."

"Home sweet dysfunctional home," Knox said.

"I brought emergency supplies." She hefted the bag. "Antacids, bandages, and the lucky Penguins cap I stole from you in high school. Also, some bail money, because… well, history."

"Bail money?" Bricks squeaked.

"You clearly don't know my brother's track record."

Prickly sensations crawled up the back of my neck. "Gina—"

"But I'm not seeing any immediate need for intervention." She turned in a complete circle. She saw Pluto's crooked grin and how Gideon stood close enough to my shoulder that it felt protective. "You all seem to have things under control."

"Barely," I said.

"That's more control than I've seen from you in years."

We spent the next hour showing Gina around, letting her interrogate my teammates with the thoroughness of a concerned sister who'd spent too many nights fielding panicked phone calls.

She asked Pluto about his coupon system, complimented Linc's creative approach to home decor, and somehow got Knox to crack a smile while complaining about the property taxes.

When Gideon mentioned the heating issues in my room, she turned to me with raised eyebrows.

"The curse strikes again?"

"Apparently, but Gideon will help me figure it out."

"That's nice of him."

Gideon spoke quietly and carefully. "Team captain duties."

Later, while the guys set up for what promised to be an epic movie night debate, Gina pulled me aside in the kitchen.

"Thatch."

"Yeah?"

She leaned against the counter, studying me with the expression that meant she was about to say something important.

"I haven't seen you this… you since that road trip in juniors, when you made me pull over at midnight so you could skate the outdoor rink in Duluth.

You were laughing so hard your helmet kept slipping. "

I paused, dish towel in hand. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're not performing. You're not trying to be what you think people want you to be." She gestured toward the living room, where raucous laughter suggested the movie selection process was going as well as expected. "You're just... here. Present. Like you actually belong here."

I shifted my weight. "I'm trying."

"No, you're not trying. You're being. There's a difference."

She watched me for a moment longer, then pulled me into her don't-argue hug. "I like seeing you like this. Happy. Settled."

"It's still early."

"Maybe. But you look and act like yourself again for the first time in years."

Before I could ask her to explain more, Pluto's voice carried from the living room: "Drake! We need your vote! Linc wants to watch some artsy horror thing, and Bricks is lobbying for something with subtitles!"

"Subtitles?" I called back. "What is this, a film festival?"

"Foreign films have better cinematography!" Bricks protested.

"They also have fewer explosions!" Knox countered.

Gina laughed. "Go referee. I should head back to my hotel anyway."

"You could stay—"

"Nah. This is your space. Your people." She kissed my cheek. "But Thatch? Call me more often. Not just when things go to shit. Call me when you score a goal, or when Pluto says something so dumb you can't stop laughing. Call me when things are good."

"Everything okay?" Gideon appeared beside me.

"Yeah. She just... she said I looked like myself again."

"And that's bad?"

"No, it's..." I searched for the right words. "I guess I didn't realize I'd stopped being myself until I started being myself again."

"Makes sense."

"Does it?"

"Yeah. Sometimes you have to lose something to understand what it was worth."

The weight of his words settled between us, and I wondered whether we were still talking about my sister's visit or something else entirely.

"Drake!" Knox bellowed from the living room. "Stop making googly eyes and help us settle this cinematic crisis!"

"Googly eyes?" I headed back into the circus.

The debate started immediately—Kubrick versus "something where people actually die."

Gideon tipped his chin toward the stairs. "Two minutes—show me the radiator before we start."

The heating situation in my room was worse than I'd expected. The radiator wheezed and rattled but produced nothing resembling actual heat. The room was like a walk-in freezer, and my breath came out in small puffs as I showed Gideon the problem.

"It's been getting progressively worse." I crouched next to the ancient radiator. "Last night I could see my breath. Tonight, I'm pretty sure I will wake up with icicles in my hair."

"When's the last time anyone looked at this thing?" Gideon knelt beside me.

"Judging by the dust buildup? The Carter administration."

He ran his hands along the pipes, testing connections. When he pressed against the baseboard, it shifted.

"Hand me that screwdriver from your desk."