Page 21 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter fifteen

Thatcher

I should have known something was wrong when Wren flashed a smile bright enough to blind the first row.

"Gentlemen," she announced, clipboard clutched against her chest like armor, "I have exciting news."

Knox immediately groaned from the back row. "Last time you said that, we had to do community service in Grimmy suits."

"That was character building," Wren shot back. "This is different. HSports Network wants to do a feature documentary on authentic minor league hockey, and they've chosen us as their focus."

The room went quiet. Everyone sat silently, trying to figure out which shoe was about to drop and how hard it would hit.

"Documentary?" Bricks perked up from his front-row seat. "Like, we'll be on TV?"

"More than TV. Streaming platform. National exposure." Wren's smile never wavered, but I heard a slight edge in her voice. "They want to capture the real story of minor league hockey. The grit, the passion, and the community spirit."

My stomach sank. I'd heard those words before, immediately before someone turned my life into content.

Pluto raised his hand. "Will there be catering?"

"Focus, Pluto." Wren consulted her clipboard. "They arrive tomorrow morning. Full crew for a week of filming. Practice, games, interviews, and the community Christmas celebration. They want complete access."

"Complete access to what?" Gideon's voice was measured. I heard wariness.

"Everything. Locker room, team house, and behind the scenes. They want authenticity."

I almost laughed. Authenticity was the last thing cameras brought to any situation. I glanced at Gideon and saw my skepticism mirrored in his expression.

"Any questions?" Wren asked.

Knox raised his hand. "Can we say no?"

"You can, but the league office knows the project and strongly encourages participation. Good for the sport, the team, and everyone's career prospects."

Translation: Say no and get blacklisted. I'd played that game before.

After the meeting, I lingered as my teammates filed out, complaining about having to clean the team house and whether their mothers would see them on TV. Gideon waited for me by the door.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

"Peachy. Always love being turned into a storyline."

His hand brushed mine as we walked toward the parking lot. "Maybe it won't be that bad."

I wanted to believe him, but my wishes were swimming upstream.

***

The production truck arrived at our practice facility the next morning like an invasion force. Cables snaked across the parking lot, and crew members in black t-shirts swarmed around mounds of equipment.

"Holy shit," Linc whistled as he climbed out of my car. "That's a lot of cameras."

The director—a guy in his thirties with perfectly styled hair and designer jeans—spotted me immediately. His eyes lit up.

"You must be Thatcher Drake." He bounded over with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who'd found a tennis ball. "Blake Humphries, director. This is going to be incredible. Your comeback kid story with a redemption arc—it's perfect."

There it was. Less than thirty seconds, and I was already reduced to a pre-planned narrative.

"Looking forward to it," I lied.

Blake's producer appeared beside him—a sharp-eyed woman in her forties.

"Rachel Madison," she said, offering a firm handshake. "We're envisioning something special here. The fallen golden boy learning humility from the steady veteran mentor." She nodded toward Gideon. "Classic sports narrative."

Gideon's jaw tightened. I knew that look—it was the same one he wore when referees made bad calls.

"Right," he said. "Mentor."

Not a partner. Not a teammate. Not the person who'd helped me rediscover why I loved the game. Mentor.

We followed Blake and Rachel inside, where they immediately began rearranging our space for "optimal storytelling." The hallway that had felt like home for months suddenly looked like a set waiting for actors to bring it to life.

"Wren!" Blake called out as our PR director appeared. "We should talk about the narrative framework."

"Actually, I've prepared some talking points about our community outreach programs. These guys are embedded in Richmond—"

"Community stories are great," Rachel interrupted smoothly, "but audiences connect with personal journeys. The individual struggle, mentor-student dynamic, and transformations. That's what trends."

I watched Wren's expression change as she realized her carefully prepared pitch landed flat. The story she wanted to tell—about guys who chose to build lives around hockey even when hockey couldn't promise them fame or fortune—wasn't sexy enough for streaming television.

"We need the fall and the rise," Blake continued, framing shots with his hands. "The authority figure and the rebel learning to work together."

Standing in the hallway, listening to them reduce our lives to story beats, I saw myself back in a conference room with my father and his contacts, being told what version of myself would be most palatable to the right people.

The interviews started after practice. The production team transformed our locker room into a makeshift studio, rearranging everything for "maximum authenticity" while making it look nothing like our usual space.

Blake positioned me on the bench where I usually sat, but at an angle that caught better light. "Be natural," he said.

"So, Thatcher, tell us about your rock bottom moment."

I'd been expecting the question, but it still felt like a stick to the gut. "I made some poor choices. Had to face the consequences."

"The viral video," Blake prompted. "Singing in your underwear, drunk, live-streaming to strangers. That must have been humiliating."

Every instinct screamed at me to tell him the real story—that it wasn't reckless indulgence but desperate loneliness when my team abandoned me. I was trying to prove I existed to anyone who would listen. Instead, I gave him the media-trained response I'd perfected.

"It was a wake-up call. Made me realize I needed to make changes."

"And now you're here in Richmond, learning humility from Captain Sawyer."

"Gideon's a great leader. The whole team has been supportive."

Blake nodded like I'd delivered the perfect soundbite he needed.

Gideon's interview was worse. They positioned him behind the captain's stall, framed to look authoritative and distant.

"How do you handle difficult personalities?" Rachel asked.

I watched from across the room as Gideon's enthusiasm shut down. "Every player brings different strengths and challenges. My job is to help them succeed."

"Thatcher Drake had quite a reputation when he arrived. Has he been a challenge to manage?"

"Thatcher's a professional. He works hard and supports his teammates."

Professional. Not passionate or talented. Professional.

We were both performing again, feeding the cameras safe, sanitized versions of ourselves that avoided messy reality.

The next day, it was time for practice footage. Blake and his cameraman positioned themselves around the rink like snipers, hunting for moments that fit their predetermined narrative.

"Can you skate that drill again?" Blake called out during a water break. "But this time, Gideon, can you look more stern when Thatcher makes the pass?"

"More stern?" Gideon's voice lacked emotion. "Why?"

"You know, like you're evaluating him. Judging whether he's worthy of the team."

Gideon clenched his teeth. "That's not what's happening in that drill."

Blake's smile never wavered. "But it's what the audience needs to see. The tension and your authority. You're the captain assessing whether he belongs."

"He does belong."

"Of course, of course," Rachel jumped in smoothly. "We're not changing the reality, only highlighting the drama already there. The mentorship and growth."

I watched Gideon glance around the rink—at Coach waiting impatiently and the rest of the team standing around while the cameras held everything hostage. His shoulders sagged slightly, and I saw the precise moment he calculated the cost of resistance versus the cost of compliance.

"Fine. Once."

I watched something die in Gideon's eyes as he skated back into position. The natural chemistry we'd built on the ice—instinctive trust and communication that made us dangerous together—was repackaged as conflict for dramatic effect.

We reran the drill. This time, instead of the quick nod of acknowledgment he'd given me naturally, Gideon delivered a calculating stare that made my skin crawl. The cameras loved it.

"Perfect!" Blake shouted. "That's the tension we need."

Around us, the rest of the team watched with growing discomfort.

Pluto kept glancing at the cameras like they were weapons trained on him.

Knox's usual running commentary dried up completely.

Even Bricks, who'd been excited about the whole thing, looked confused by the artificial drama manufactured around us.

"This is fucked," Linc muttered during another break.

"Language," Rachel called out. "We're recording everything."

That was precisely the problem.

***

The breaking point came during B-roll filming around town. Blake had decided he needed "a day in the life" footage to show the real Richmond.

I was leaving the coffee shop near the team house when Pluto burst through the front door, face flushed with anger.

"Those assholes filmed Jet."

"What?"

"At the grocery store. He was just shopping, man. Out of costume, reading ingredient labels like a normal human being. They followed him around with a camera."

My blood ran cold. "Please tell me you're joking."

"They're calling it behind-the-mask content. Blake's practically jerking off about how humanizing it'll be."

Jet appeared behind Pluto, looking smaller than I'd ever seen him. Without the skull head and costume, he was just a regular guy in his thirties with thinning hair and kind eyes. He was the kind of person who disappeared into crowds and probably preferred it that way.