Page 16 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter eleven

Thatcher

T he Reapers staff transformed the Richmond Community Center's gym into something between a carnival and a classroom, with reading stations scattered throughout.

Colorful banners hung from the ceiling proclaiming "REAPERS READ!

" A mini hockey rink in one corner used plastic boards and foam pucks.

Face-painting stations took up another corner.

I stood in the doorway, taking it all in. It was nothing like the sterile corporate charity events I'd attended in juniors—those carefully orchestrated photo ops where we showed up, faked smiles, signed a few autographs, and bolted before anyone could ask a real question.

This was messier. More real.

The gym buzzed with energy, but when Gideon walked in behind Coach, something about him felt…off. He smiled at the kids, nodded at the staff, and did all the captain things, but his eyes looked darker than usual, like he hadn't slept right. I figured maybe it was just the early start.

"Drake!" Wren appeared at my elbow like a well-dressed tornado, clipboard in hand. "You're on reading station three. Ages seven to ten. Try not to traumatize them."

"Thanks for the encouragement."

"I have contingency plans for everything except Grimmy." She glanced toward the entrance, where he attempted to navigate through the door sideways. His giant skull kept catching on the frame. "He's a wild card even on good days."

Grimmy finally made it inside and immediately crashed into a display table of donated books. The collision sent paperbacks scattering across the floor like confetti. Half the kids scattered in terror; the others rushed forward shrieking with delight.

I dropped to my knees to gather the scattered books. A few brave kids joined me, chattering excitedly about the "scary skeleton man" while I stacked picture books and early readers.

"Is he dead?" a little girl with pigtails asked, pointing at Grimmy, tangled in the table legs.

"Nah, he's just resting. Skeletons get tired, too."

She giggled. "That's silly. Skeletons don't sleep."

"How do you know? Maybe they have skeleton dreams about skeleton ice cream."

More giggles. Across the room, I spotted Gideon watching me. When our eyes met, he looked away quickly.

I gathered my small army of helpers. "Alright, troops, let's get these books back where they belong before we have to rescue Grimmy again."

Twenty minutes later, I sat cross-legged on a reading mat, surrounded by seven kids with skeptical expressions. A shy boy with dark hair sat at the edge of our circle, close enough to participate but ready to bolt if necessary.

I held up the first book. "So, who wants to help me tell the story of Captain Underpants?"

Six hands shot up. The shy kid—Danny, according to his name tag—remained motionless.

I launched into the most dramatic reading of Captain Underpants the world had ever seen, complete with superhero voices and sound effects that had the kids giggling uncontrollably.

When I got to the part where Captain Underpants fought the evil Wedgie Woman, I stood and demonstrated proper superhero poses.

"Danny, what do you think Captain Underpants should do next?"

He shrugged, not meeting my eyes.

The other kids shouted suggestions, but I continued to focus on Danny. Something about his posture—shoulders curved inward, taking up as little space as possible—was familiar.

Danny lingered after we finished the book, and the other kids scattered to the bathroom and snack stations.

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to," I told him. "But if you do want to hang out, that's cool too."

He picked at the edge of the reading mat. "Do you really play hockey?"

"I do. Not very well sometimes, but yeah."

He sighed. "I tried to play once but wasn't very good."

My chest ached. "You know what? I wasn't very good when I started either. Spent most of my first season falling down."

His fingers unclenched, and his toes edged onto the foam mat. He looked up for the first time, a flicker of hope in his expression. "Really?"

"Really. Want me to show you some stuff? Nothing fancy, just basics."

For the next thirty minutes, Danny and I worked with plastic sticks and foam pucks in a corner of the gym. I showed him how to hold the stick, pass, and receive a pass without panicking. His face lit up when he successfully stopped a puck I'd sent his way.

"I did it!" he whispered.

"Hell yeah, you did. NHL scouts better start circling."

Other kids drifted over. Soon, I had eight kids in a loose circle, passing pucks and cheering each other on. It was loud, boisterous, and absolutely perfect.

While I explained the concept of "soft hands," Gideon stood nearby, watching. He had a warm expression on his face, and it made my heart skip.

A crash from across the room broke the spell. At the face painting station, Bricks froze while paint-covered children ran in circles around him like colorful demons. He'd gone pale, staring in disbelief.

"Keep practicing," I told the kids. "I'll be right back."

I crossed the gym quickly, taking in the scene. Bricks had lost control of the situation, and the kids sensed it. They weren't malicious, only excited and unstructured.

"Hey," I said, stepping up beside him. "Looks like you could use some backup."

"I can't—" His voice was tight. "They want different things and the paint's everywhere and I don't know how to—"

"That's okay. Mind if I jump in?"

Relief flooded his face. "Please."

I clapped my hands once, loud enough to get attention. "Alright, artists! New system. Everyone who wants their face painted needs to sit in this line. No running, no pushing, and absolutely no eating the paint."

"What if we just lick it a little?" one kid asked.

"No licking either. If you do that, you'll turn into a paint monster."

They giggled and settled into a surprisingly orderly line. I turned to Bricks, lowering my voice.

"You take the next kid in line. I'll keep the others entertained with stories about paint monsters and rainbow dragons. Simple designs only—dots, stripes, basic shapes. All they want is to feel special."

"What if I mess it up?"

"Then some kid has a messy face, and you try again. They aren't art critics. They're excited to have someone paying attention to them."

For the next hour, we worked as a team. Bricks painted careful flowers and hockey sticks on small faces while I spun elaborate tales about the magical properties of face paint.

His hands steadied as he found his rhythm, and by the end, kids were specifically requesting "the nice hockey player" to paint their designs.

During a quiet moment, while a little girl decided between a butterfly and a star, Bricks spoke quietly.

"I keep thinking I'm going to disappoint them. Like they'll figure out I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Bricks, you've spent two hours making kids feel like superheroes. You think that's disappointing them?"

"But I almost lost it—"

"Almost doesn't count. You asked for help when you needed it. That's not failure, that's smart." I nudged his shoulder. "At least half of these kids will go home and tell their parents about the cool hockey player who painted their face. You think they will mention the part where you felt nervous?"

He smiled for the first time all day. "Probably not."

"Definitely not."

As the event wound down and parents began collecting their paint-splattered, sugar-charged children, I helped with cleanup. Most of the team had already left, but a core group remained to handle the heavy lifting.

"Supply run," Wren announced, consulting her clipboard. "We need to get the equipment back to the storage room. Thatcher, Gideon—can you two handle the hockey gear?"

Adrenaline shot through me. We'd barely spoken since the night he'd fallen asleep on my shoulder, maintaining careful professional distance that fooled no one. Now, Wren was sending us into a small, enclosed space together.

"Sure," I said, with a smile.

The storage room was as cramped as I'd expected. It had barely enough space for two people to move around the shelves of sports equipment and cleaning supplies. A single overhead bulb cast everything in dim, golden light, making the confined space feel even more intimate.

Gideon was all business. "Sticks can go on the top shelf." He reached up to slide the plastic hockey sticks into place, his shirt riding up slightly to expose a strip of skin above his waistband.

I forced myself to focus on stacking the foam pucks into their container. "Good event."

"Yeah. Kids seemed to have fun."

"I saw you watching."

"Hard not to," he admitted. "You were a natural with them."

I set down the puck container and turned to face him. "Did that surprise you?"

"I knew you were good with people, but Danny..." He shook his head, a hint of wonder in his voice. "You transformed that kid. In thirty minutes, he went from hiding to leading the group."

"Reminded me of myself at that age." It was an honest statement. "Convinced I didn't deserve anyone's attention."

"And now?"

"Now I'm wondering what else I was wrong about." I held his gaze. "What else I thought I didn't deserve."

The air in the room changed, charged with electricity. We stood close—too close for merely organizing equipment. I saw a faint scar on Gideon's chin that I'd wanted to trace with my tongue for weeks.

"Thatcher..." His voice was rough.

"Yeah?"

He stepped forward and closed the distance between us. His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone.

"I know this is a bad idea…"

"Terrible idea." I leaned into his touch.

"Someone could come looking for us."

"Probably will."

"We should finish cleaning up."

"We should."

Neither of us moved.

The kiss started softly, giving me a chance to pull away. When I didn't—pressing closer instead—something snapped. His mouth opened against mine, desperate and hungry, and I tasted coffee, lust, and the careful distance dissolving.