Page 20 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter fourteen

Gideon

T he locker room felt different for our out-of-town game. The suffocating tension that had choked us before our last match gave way to something lighter—anticipation instead of dread. I sat in my stall, methodically wrapping tape around my stick blade, and my hands weren't shaking.

"Looking steady, Cap." Knox settled into the stall beside me, already half-dressed. "Sleep better last night?"

"Yeah. Much better." I saw Thatcher across the room, pulling his jersey over his head. The blue and white striped tape on his stick blade flashed under the fluorescent light. My tape. Still.

"Good," Knox said, following my gaze. "The team needs their captain present."

Present. That's what Wren had said after my last disaster—being a captain wasn't about being perfect, it was about being present. Last night, in that cramped hotel room, Thatcher and I finally stopped hiding from each other. Stopped performing fear and started choosing connection.

I finished my tape job and tested the weight of my stick. Familiar. Right.

"Alright, boys." Coach's voice cut through the pre-game chatter. "Last game, we played scared. Played like we didn't trust each other. Tonight, we play our game. Believe in your instincts. Support your linemates. Know that the guy beside you will be where he's supposed to be."

He glanced at me—a slight nod. Message received.

"On three—what do we do?"

"REAP THE WIN!"

As we filed toward the tunnel, the air crackled around us. It wasn't artificial bravado I'd been nurturing for weeks. It was genuine excitement and readiness. Guys bumping shoulders and sticks tapping the walls.

Thatcher fell into step beside me as we approached the ice. "You good?"

"Yeah." I looked at him directly instead of finding somewhere else to focus. "We good?"

His smile was answer enough.

The first period unfolded like hockey was supposed to feel—instinctual, connected, alive.

Our first shift together came six minutes in—nothing spectacular—a simple defensive zone faceoff that I won clean. I executed a quick outlet pass to Linc and a controlled breakout that didn't create scoring chances but didn't give any away either. Basic hockey executed properly.

"Good read," Thatcher said during the line change, bumping my shoulder with his glove.

Two shifts later, we found something better. Thatcher picked up a loose puck in the neutral zone and hit me with a pass that landed on my tape exactly where I expected it. I carried it three strides, drew their defenseman toward me, and slid it back to Thatcher as he drove toward their blue line.

The shot missed, but the sequence was flawless—pure hockey instinct, no overthinking.

From the bench, I heard Pluto's voice: "Now that's what I'm talking about!"

Norfolk opened the scoring midway through the period on a power play goal. In the past, I would have let that goal weigh on me as personal failure, allowing it to poison the rest of my game.

Changing my approach, I skated to the faceoff dot and called out assignments for the restart. Clear voice, clear head. We had forty-plus minutes to answer.

Linc tied it with three minutes left in the period, burying a rebound after Bricks made two spectacular saves to keep us close.

As the horn sounded, I caught Thatcher's eye on the bench.

He was grinning, sweat-slicked hair sticking out from under his helmet, looking like a guy who remembered why he loved this game.

I flashed an instinctual smile.

Everything clicked in the second period.

Eight minutes in, Norfolk took a 2-1 lead on a goal that deflected off Knox's skate—bad luck, not bad defense. During the timeout that followed, Coach gathered us at the bench.

"Same game," he said, calm and certain. "We're playing the right way."

I caught Thatcher's eye across the huddle. Something passed between us—not words, but understanding. We had this.

Three minutes later, that understanding bore fruit.

I won a draw in our defensive zone and immediately spotted Thatcher breaking up the left wing.

Instead of the safe pass to the boards that would have killed momentum, I trusted my read and hit him in stride with a tape-to-tape pass that threaded between two Norfolk players.

Thatcher carried it across their blue line, drawing attention and creating space. I followed the play, no hesitation this time.

He dropped the puck back to me at the perfect moment—not too early, not too late—and suddenly I had time and space at the top of the circle. Thatcher finished his move, slipping behind their defense toward the far post—time for my pass.

Cross-ice, through traffic, it landed on his stick as he planted at the goal line. He one-timed it before their goalie could recover, the puck ringing off the crossbar and down behind the line so fast it took the crowd a full second to register what had happened.

The crowd groaned.

I was halfway across the ice before I realized I was moving. Thatcher skated toward me with his arms raised and his face lit up with a massive grin. He crashed into me at the boards, gloves and helmet clattering as the rest of our line piled on top of us.

"Beauty pass!" he shouted over the crowd noise.

"Beauty finish!" I shouted back.

The bench poured over the boards, guys who hadn't even been on the ice, celebrating like they'd scored it themselves. Knox skated over and grabbed both of us in a bear hug.

"Fuckin' nailed it!" he shouted, mussing my hair like I was a rookie with his first goal.

Pluto appeared at my other shoulder, screaming something incomprehensible about "documentation" and "historical significance." Even Bricks had left his crease to join the pile.

I spotted Coach behind the bench as we skated back to center ice for the restart. He wasn't smiling—Coach never smiled during games—but he gave me the slightest nod of approval.

It sparked a flame of pure joy. Not relief at avoiding disaster, or grim satisfaction at executing properly. It was the elation of playing hockey as it was meant to be played.

Connected. Believing.

We scored twice more in the third period—Linc on a power play and Knox on an empty netter that sealed a 4-2 victory. In the handshake line, three Norfolk players commented on my pass. "Hell of a play," their captain said, tapping my shin pads with his stick.

Walking back to our bench afterward, Thatcher fell into step beside me. "That felt..."

"Like hockey," I finished. "Like it's supposed to feel."

Back in the locker room, music blasted from someone's speaker. The guys sang along badly, voices cracking on the high notes, and nobody cared. Equipment scattered everywhere as we celebrated first and worried about organization later.

Pluto snatched Grimmy's role and appointed himself official game photographer, moving through the room with a Polaroid camera, documenting what he called "the moment Captain America got his groove back.

" He'd already started an impromptu shrine on the equipment bench, arranging photos of the goal celebration, our embrace at the boards, and Knox's victory dance in chronological order.

"This is going in the scrapbook," he announced, generating a fresh photo. "Future generations need to understand the magnitude of this moment."

"Future generations?" Linc asked, toweling off his hair.

"Our children. Their children. The hockey historians of tomorrow." Pluto held up the camera like it was the Stanley Cup. "Also, I'm keeping the embarrassing ones for blackmail purposes."

Still riding the high of a solid performance, Bricks had apparently decided to reenact our goal using equipment bags and a roll of stick tape.

He'd set up an elaborate reconstruction in the corner of the room, complete with play-by-play commentary delivered in the worst announcer voice I'd ever heard.

"And here comes Sawyer with the pass—" He launched a crumpled towel across the room. "Oh, what a beautiful dish to Drake, who's in perfect position—"

He tried to demonstrate the one-timer using a broken stick and immediately got tangled in the tape, toppling backward into a pile of shoulder pads.

"And the crowd goes wild!" Knox deadpanned, not looking up from unlacing his skates.

The laughter was infectious. Real. It had been weeks since our locker room was so loose, twenty guys enjoying each other's company instead of professional acquaintances sharing space.

I grinned as I watched it all unfold. Thatcher moved to the center of the celebration, not commanding attention but drawing it anyway. He helped Bricks untangle himself from the tape while simultaneously keeping Pluto's photo session organized and singing backup vocals to the music.

"Cap actually smiled during a game," Linc announced, "I have photographic evidence."

"About time," someone called from across the room.

Knox, still focused on his gear, spoke without looking up. "You know what's funny? I was looking up Norfolk's coaching staff earlier, and guess who's an assistant in Raleigh now?"

The energy in the room shifted slightly. Curious attention.

"Jordan Mitchell. Remember that kid who used to live in your room?" Knox glanced at Thatcher. "Good for him, finding his place. Heard he's doing well with their penalty kill."

The name landed hard in my gut. Jordan Mitchell. J.M. The guy who'd carved his initials into rubber along with mine and hidden his heart behind a baseboard because it was too dangerous to keep it anywhere else.

I looked across the room at Thatcher, who was still helping Bricks. Our eyes met, and I saw the same recognition there. Jordan had found his way to something sustainable. He'd survived the hiding and built something new.

"Good for him," Thatcher said quietly.

Thatcher wasn't merely talented—he was the piece we'd been missing. Not the flashiest player or the highest scorer, but the guy who made everyone else better. He was the glue that held disparate personalities together and made them feel like a team.

He caught Pluto's camera when it slipped during a particularly enthusiastic documentation session. He helped Bricks to his feet and ensured Knox didn't trip over the equipment shrine. He kept the energy positive without forcing it.

"Media wants a few minutes with the goal scorers," Wren announced from the doorway, clipboard in one hand and a satisfied expression on her face. "Try not to say anything quotable."

As I stood to follow her out, I caught Thatcher's eye again. Instead of the careful professional distance I'd maintained for weeks, I let myself really smile—a genuine, unguarded smile.

The effect was immediate. Knox paused mid-conversation, water bottle halfway to his mouth. Linc stopped pretending to organize his gear. Pluto lowered his camera.

Not uncomfortable staring—more like recognition. Understanding. Relief.

"About damn time," Linc said quietly to Pluto.

Knox tossed his towel into his stall and nodded toward us. "Good for them."

The acceptance was so casual and matter-of-fact that it took me a moment to process it. They weren't tolerating this development or pretending not to notice. They were relieved to see their captain finally stop fighting himself.

The media scrum was brief and painless. Standard post-game questions about the goal, team chemistry, and whether this performance indicated we'd turned a corner.

"Great pass from Sawyer," Thatcher told the reporter from the local paper. "Made my job easy."

"Thatcher put it exactly where it needed to go," I replied when they asked about the assist. "That's what good players do—they finish plays."

Easy chemistry, natural back-and-forth. If the reporters noticed anything beyond professional respect, they didn't mention it.

Walking back to the locker room afterward, Thatcher bumped my shoulder with his.

"You ready for the bus ride home?"

I thought about the team still celebrating, the inevitable questions about what had changed, and the attention that would come with playing well again. A month ago, any of those things would have sent me spiraling into anxiety about exposure and consequences.

I'd replaced it with eager anticipation for what came next.

"With you? Yeah."

As we rejoined our teammates, I realized the thing I'd been most afraid of—letting people see how much I cared about Thatcher—had already happened. Instead of destroying everything, it had made us all better.

Jordan had carved his love into rubber and hidden it away. I was done hiding. I let my teammates see me—see us—and the room didn't fall silent or crack apart. It lifted. It was messy, noisy, alive. Love didn't destroy anything. It made the game, the team, and me… better.