Page 22 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

"They didn't ask," he said quietly. "I was just buying groceries. Using coupons." His voice cracked slightly. "They kept filming while I was checking prices on cereal. Made jokes about the Grim Reaper being frugal."

Protective anger rose inside my chest. Jet wasn't only our mascot—he was part of our family.

He sold season tickets, drove the equipment van, and showed up to every practice, even when it wasn't required.

He'd picked me up from the airport on my first day, and now these strangers were turning his private life into content without his permission.

We entered the house, and I slammed the door behind me.

"That's fucked up," Linc said immediately.

Bricks shifted uncomfortably. "But what if we make a big deal about it and they, you know, make us look bad? Like, difficult to work with?"

The room went quiet.

"They're already making us look however they want," Pluto said. "At least this way we're standing up for each other."

"Easy for you to say," Bricks muttered. "You're not on a two-way contract."

Knox spoke from the kitchen doorway, where he'd been listening. "Kid's got a point. We push back, and suddenly, we're the problem children who can't play nice with the media. League office won't like that."

"So, we let them do whatever they want?" Linc asked.

"I'm not saying that." Knox crossed his arms. "I'm saying there's a cost to fighting this, and some of us have more to lose than others."

The weight of that truth settled over everyone. Bricks was right—he was barely hanging onto his roster spot. A reputation as a difficult player could end his career before it started.

"Where are they now?" I asked.

"Editing van," Pluto said. "Blake's already talking about it being a highlight reel moment."

I was already on the move.

I found Blake in the production truck, hunched over a laptop with headphones on, scrubbing through footage of Jet reading nutrition labels.

"We need to talk."

He looked up, annoyed at the interruption. "What's up? We're in the middle of a cut."

"That footage of Jet. You can't use it."

Blake's expression shifted to confused amusement. "Why not? It's gold. Audiences love behind-the-scenes stuff. Very humanizing."

"You didn't ask his permission."

Rachel appeared beside Blake. "Public space, no expectation of privacy. Standard practice."

"Standard practice is exploiting people?"

"It's documentary filmmaking," Blake said, as if he were explaining something obvious to a child. "We're telling a story. He's part of the story."

"He's a person, not content."

Rachel's expression turned patronizing. "Thatcher, I understand you're protective of your teammates—that's actually great character development for your arc—but we have a job to do here."

My arc. Even my anger was only raw material to flesh out their narrative.

"Find a different job," I said, and walked out.

Behind me, I heard Rachel's voice drop to a harsh whisper: "Blake, we need that footage."

"I know, but—"

"No buts. HSports Network is breathing down our necks. The last three documentaries tanked in the ratings, and if this one doesn't hit their demo targets, we're both looking for new jobs. Real ones. Not the fun kind."

I paused by the truck's back door, hidden from view.

"They want personal drama, behind-the-scenes authenticity. The mascot thing is perfect—quirky, humanizing. We can't go back to the network with footage of guys just playing hockey. That doesn't trend."

Blake's sigh was audible even through the truck walls. "Sometimes I miss doing actual documentaries. You know, stories that mattered."

"Stories that mattered don't pay for your kid's college tuition," Rachel said. "And they don't keep the lights on at the network. We give them what they want or give someone else our jobs."

I moved away from the truck, their words following me across the parking lot. They weren't evil. They were trapped in the same system that had been grinding me down for years—performance for profit and authenticity packaged to sell to the highest bidder.

That almost made it worse.

I found Gideon mechanically organizing stick tape in the equipment room an hour later.

"Heard about the confrontation," he said without looking up.

"They filmed Jet without permission and called it humanizing."

"I know. You did the right thing."

"Did I? Or did I make it all worse?"

Gideon set down the tape and leaned against the shelf. "I've been giving them what they want all day. The stern captain routine and the disapproving mentor act. Playing a character instead of being myself."

"I've been doing the same thing. Reformed bad boy learning humility from his betters."

"Neither of those people is real."

"No," I agreed. "But they're easier to perform than the truth."

We stood in the cramped space, surrounded by the tools of our trade, and I realized we'd both fallen back into the same patterns that had nearly destroyed us individually. Acting for approval and hiding our authentic selves behind safer versions to market.

"They want me to be the guy who needs saving," I said. "And you to be the guy who saves me."

"What if I told you that you saved me?" Gideon asked quietly.

I hadn't seen that coming. "What?"

"That night in Norfolk, when you told me about your birthday. About being alone and needing to feel real." He stepped closer. "I realized I'd been hiding for so long I'd forgotten what it felt like to actually exist. You reminded me."

"Gideon—"

"They can film whatever they want," he continued. "But they can't change what's real between us and what's real about this team."

Through the thin walls, we heard the muffled sounds of our teammates in the locker room. Linc's laugh, Knox's grumbling, and Pluto's enthusiastic explanation of something probably involving coupons. The everyday noise of people who'd chosen each other as family.

"They don't see any of it," I said. "The actual story. They just see content to harvest."

"Then we don't feed them content. Go back to existing."

It sounded simple when he said it. Don't perform, don't curate, and don't package ourselves for consumption. Be real and let the cameras catch whatever they could.

***

That night, I sat in my room at the team house, listening to the familiar sounds of home. Pluto and Linc argued about movie choices. Bricks practiced stick handling in the hallway. The radiator that Gideon and I had finally fixed pumped actual heat into my space.

My phone buzzed with a text:

Dad: Saw documentary preview clips online. You look good, son. Professional. This could really help rehabilitate your image.

I stared at the message for a long time. Even now, after everything, he focused on image rehabilitation and future opportunities. He'd watched footage of me giving careful, media-trained answers that failed to reflect reality, and his response was approval.

I thought about the stories Blake and Rachel wanted to tell. My fall from grace and redemption through humility. Gideon's steady mentorship of a troubled player. The individual struggles and transformation arcs that would trend on social media and generate engagement metrics.

None of it was true, but they were the kind of stories that sold, and I'd spent my entire life learning to give people what they wanted to buy.

I'd performed for my father's approval, chasing standards that moved every time I got close to reaching them.

I'd performed for agents, coaches, and scouts, molding myself into whatever shape they needed me to be.

I'd even performed my own breakdown, turning my loneliness into content for strangers because it was the only way I could think of to prove I existed.

Now I was supposed to perform for streaming ratings, too? Package my found family and the love I'd discovered into a digestible narrative that would entertain people for fifty-eight minutes before they moved on to the next thing?

I stared at my father's message for a long time, thumb hovering over the delete button. Part of me—the part trained since childhood to seek approval—wanted to respond. To thank him for noticing. To promise I'd keep being professional.

Professional. The same word Gideon had used in his interview. It made my skin crawl.

I set the phone down without deleting anything and walked to the window. Gideon's truck sat in the driveway, and I heard voices from downstairs.

What would happen if I stopped following a script tomorrow? If I gave Blake and Rachel honest answers instead of media-trained soundbites?

The league office's strong encouragement echoed in my head. Career prospects. Professional reputation. The careful rebuild I'd been working on since the viral moment.

I thought about juniors and how I'd learned to smile at the right moments during interviews, saying the right things about team chemistry and personal growth. How I'd become so good at giving people what they wanted to hear that I'd forgotten what I wanted to say.

The pattern stretched back further. In elementary school hockey, Dad started coaching me on talking to scouts. "Humble but confident. Grateful but hungry."

High school, where every conversation with coaches was like an audition.

Even the breakdown had been a performance in a way. Not the singing—that had been real, desperate loneliness finally spilling over, but everything after. The apologies and redemption narrative I'd let people craft around it.

I picked up the phone again and reread Dad's message. You look good, son. Professional.

Gideon's words from the equipment room echoed: Go back to existing.

It sounded impossible. I'd been hiding behind a persona so long I wasn't sure I remembered how to just be.

What if I gave them real answers tomorrow and they painted me as difficult?

What if honesty got me labeled a problem player again?

What if I protected Jet's privacy, and they made me the villain?

Then, I thought about Bricks and how he'd looked at me that night when panic had him pinned to the couch. I hadn't performed then. I'd helped because he needed help, and it had been enough.

Maybe that's what Gideon meant about existing. Perhaps it wasn't about grand gestures or perfect authenticity. It could be about choosing real connection over comfortable lies, one moment at a time.

I deleted my father's message and set the phone aside.

When Blake asked about my rock bottom moment tomorrow, maybe I'd tell him the truth. That it wasn't about learning humility—it was about being so lonely I'd sing to strangers to feel human.

When Rachel pushed the mentor narrative, maybe I'd explain that Gideon wasn't my authority figure—he was the person who'd helped me remember what it was like to be seen.

Maybe the real story wasn't fall and redemption, but finding people who let you belong without earning it first.

The cameras could roll. For the first time, I might be ready to show them something real.