Page 15 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter ten

Gideon

My body remembered everything my brain registered as tactical errors—the weight of Thatcher's head against me and how his breathing had slowed until it matched mine.

So many years of careful boundaries, and I'd let myself fall asleep in front of nineteen teammates like some rookie who couldn't manage his own emotional discipline.

I was the captain who kept everyone else's messes in line, and I couldn't control my own need to feel safe for ten minutes.

Fuck.

I rolled out of bed and executed my morning routine with military precision. Coffee: black, two sugars, same mug. Protein shake: vanilla, because everything else reminded me of his eyes. Review practice notes: special teams work and defensive zone coverage.

The shrine we'd found kept flashing through my mind. Jordan Mitchell's carved initials. J.M. + G.S. That careful heart, worn smooth by desperate fingers. The ticket stub with its heartbreaking confession: Told coach I was injured. Couldn't watch you leave.

Did I have that to fear in my future? Watching Thatcher get traded because I couldn't be brave enough to fight for what we had?

I arrived at the practice facility forty-five minutes early, hoping to avoid the team breakfast ritual at Dot's. They'd be buzzing and gossiping about the night before. The rink was quiet, except for the hum of the ice plant and the distant echo of my skates on concrete.

Peaceful. Controlled. Safe.

At exactly 8:15, Thatcher walked through the locker room door.

He dropped his bag into his stall. When he glanced around the room and found me, his mouth curved into a smile.

"Morning, Cap."

"Drake." I was a little too clipped and professional.

If he noticed my tone, he didn't react. He settled into his usual routine—gear arranged with methodical precision, laces checked. He used the same rabbit-ear knot I'd been teaching rookies since juniors.

I focused on my stick tape with laser intensity, wrapping each strip like my life depended on it. Still, his presence reminded me of how he'd looked in sleep—unguarded, trusting, and beautiful. My hands trembled.

The rest of the team trickled in with their usual random behavior. Linc showed up wearing two different socks and carrying what appeared to be a philosophy textbook tucked under his arm. Pluto burst through the door backwards, juggling his phone, car keys, and a travel mug.

"Sleep well, everyone?" Linc asked as he glanced at Thatcher first and then me.

Thatcher grinned. "Like a baby. Great movie night."

Knox grunted from his stall. "Some of us got more rest than others."

I kept my eyes on my tape job, but I felt the weight of twenty guys paying attention to every micro response from me.

"Cap looked pretty comfortable," Pluto added helpfully, and I wanted to strangle him with his skate laces.

Thatcher deflected expertly. "Everyone was comfortable. That's what quality team bonding does."

Team bonding. Right. That's what we were calling it.

Bricks chose that moment to stumble in. "Did I miss anything important?"

"Nope," three voices said simultaneously.

I looked up to find Thatcher watching me.

"Ready to work, Cap?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

On the ice, the threat of gossip faded away.

We started with basic warm-up drills—nothing complicated—moving the puck and getting our legs under us. The moment Thatcher and I skated side-by-side, something clicked.

I correctly predicted his movements before he made them. When he cut left toward the boards, I was already there to deliver the pass. When I carried the puck up ice, he found a soft spot in coverage without looking.

During a simple two-on-one rush, pure hockey instinct bypassed my overthinking brain. Thatcher drew the defenseman with a subtle shoulder fake. I was already moving before I made a conscious decision. His pass hit my tape,

This is what it feels like to be known by someone.

The goal went in, but I only processed how he'd read my intentions better than I'd read them myself.

Sticks banged against the glass. Knox even nodded his approval.

"Sawyer! Drake!" Coach's whistle cut through the celebration. "Run that again."

We lined up, and I overthought it. Tried to make it ordinary, professional, just two players running a drill. That lasted maybe five seconds. The moment the puck touched my stick, instinct took over.

Thatcher moved into a perfect position before I knew I would pass. He one-timed the shot past the goalie like we'd practiced it a thousand times.

The execution was flawless. Textbook perfect.

"Interesting chemistry," Coach observed, skating closer. "Keep working on that connection."

For the next drill, I deliberately partnered with Knox. Put Thatcher with Linc. Professional distance. Smart leadership. Logical.

I celebrated my leadership wisdom until Thatcher laughed at something Linc said. My jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth.

When Linc fed him a perfect pass and Thatcher buried it with a grin, something ugly twisted in my stomach. When they bumped fists in celebration, I wanted to skate over and remind them both that Thatcher was my linemate, my—

My what?

I'd created distance, but it unfolded as jealous monitoring. They weren't professional boundaries. It was possessive bullshit disguised as leadership.

After practice, while shoving my gear into my bag, I noticed stick tape scattered across the floor. Blue and white striped, distinctive and impossible to miss.

Thatcher was using my tape. Still, three days later, and he hadn't switched back to standard black.

"Still borrowing the captain's lucky tape?"

He looked up from untying his skates with a raised eyebrow. "Borrowing implies I'm giving it back." That smile was pure trouble. "I'm thinking of it more as... inherited."

Inherited.

Not borrowed or stolen. Inherited meant permanent. It meant belonging. It meant something passed down from one person to another, a legacy no one could take away.

"Unless you want it back?" he added. "I can find my own luck."

I opened my mouth to say something safe and captain-appropriate about team supplies and proper equipment protocols. Instead, "Keep it. It works better on you anyway."

He didn't smile this time. He set down his skate and looked at me directly. "Why'd you give it to me in the first place?"

The question blindsided me. "What?"

"Your lucky tape. The one you've used for three seasons. The roll Knox said you guard like it's made of gold." He stood, closing the distance between us. "You don't hand that over to the new guy unless it means something."

My throat went dry. "You needed—"

"Bullshit." His voice was quiet but confident. "You gave it to me the day I got hurt. Like you were trying to protect me with it." He stepped closer. "So I'm asking again—why?"

The question echoed in the now-empty locker room. I could lie. Give him some captain-speak about team support and equipment sharing.

Instead, the truth came out raw and unplanned: "Because losing you would break something in me."

Three beats of silence stretched between us.

"Gideon."

"Forget I said that."

"Not a chance." Thatcher reached out and wrapped his fingers around my wrist. "You know what wearing your tape means to me?"

I couldn't breathe.

His thumb traced my pulse point. "It means I think about you every time I tape my stick. Every shift I take." His eyes locked on mine. "It means I'm fucking yours, Gideon, whether you're brave enough to do something about it or not."

I opened my mouth, closed it, and opened it again. He'd blown through every defense I had with three words.

I'm fucking yours.

Before I could find my voice, footsteps echoed from the hallway. Thatcher stepped back, the spell broken.

"Think about it." He grabbed his bag and headed for the door, pausing long enough to add, "I'm not going anywhere."

I sat there staring at the empty doorway, heart hammering, until Knox reappeared. He'd hung around. It wasn't his usual post-practice routine—clearing out fast to beat traffic.

"Equipment room," he said, already walking. "We need to discuss your defensive strategy."

I followed, knowing he wasn't talking about hockey.

I followed him into the cramped space. He closed the door behind us and crossed his arms.

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"The retreat thing." His voice was flat and matter-of-fact. "Same pattern as before. Get close to someone, panic, create distance."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Knox snorted. "Bullshit. You think I don't remember Jordan Mitchell? The kid went from glued to your hip to traded in two weeks. Same defensive moves you're pulling now."

"That was different."

"Was it?" Knox stepped closer. "In my eyes, you've got something good with Drake. Something real. And you're about to torch it because you're scared."

"It's not about being scared—"

"Then what's it about?" Knox's voice was sharp and cutting. "Your position? Your reputation? The same bullshit excuses you used last time?"

"The team—"

"The team likes him. The team likes you. The team likes you together." Knox jabbed a finger at my chest. "You want to know what they don't like? Watching their captain tie himself in knots over something that makes him happy."

I leaned against the equipment shelves, suddenly exhausted. "It's complicated."

"No, it's not. You're making it complicated." Knox fixed me with a stern gaze while his voice softened. "That kid left that shrine because someone couldn't be brave enough to fight for him. You want to be that guy again?"

"That's not—"

"That's exactly what it is." He moved toward the door, then stopped. "Jordan carved those initials because he had something worth carving. Drake's still wearing your tape because he thinks he has something worth keeping. Don't prove him wrong."

The door closed behind him with a quiet click, leaving me alone with the ghosts of every misstep I'd ever made.

I sat in my car in the parking lot for twenty minutes after everyone else had left.

Last night, for the first time in three years, I'd felt safe enough to let my guard down completely. Instead of celebrating that trust, I was running from it.

What was I protecting? The team was covering for us. My reputation could survive this.

Still, logic didn't matter—some part of me believed that wanting Thatcher would prove I didn't deserve to be captain.

My heart?

That was the honest answer, wasn't it? I was protecting myself from deserving something good. From believing I could have what Jordan Mitchell had carved into that puck.

He had loved someone enough to hide a shrine. He'd skipped his last game because watching his person leave was too painful. He'd carved J.M. + G.S. into rubber and hidden it behind a baseboard like a prayer.

And what had I done? Run. Again.

The parking lot was empty except for my car and the distant sound of traffic. I pulled out my phone and stared at Thatcher's contact.

I could text him. Apologize for being weird at practice. Explain that I was scared and stupid and wanted him more than I'd wanted anything in years.

Instead, I put the phone away and started the car.

Tomorrow, I decided. It could wait. Tomorrow, I'd figure out how to stop running from the best thing that had happened to me since I'd learned to skate.

Tonight, I was going home to my empty apartment to practice being brave enough to deserve Thatcher Drake.

The drive home was quiet except for the radio playing soft rock and the sound of my own breathing. I thought about Jordan Mitchell's shrine at every red light and how he'd wrapped those memories in an old hockey sock. He'd carved the faded initials with desperate precision.

Some guys only get one chance at this.

Knox was right. I'd built this life to be safe. Unbreakable. But what good was all that structure if the moment I let someone get close, I turned into a ghost in my own story?

I'd erased myself from David's life. Let Jordan vanish without a fight.

With Thatcher, I'd run out of excuses, and he was still here.