Page 23 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter sixteen

Gideon

B lake positioned cameras like he was directing a Hollywood production. It was a sure sign our practice scrimmage was doomed.

"Perfect angle for leadership moments," he explained to his cameraman, gesturing toward the bench. "This is where authenticity happens — the cracks, the pressure. People don't believe in perfection; they believe in struggle. We want to catch every micro-expression when things go wrong."

When things go wrong. Not if. When.

The assumption settled in my gut. Around me, the team went through their usual pre-practice routine, but everything they did was stiff and stilted.

Pluto forced his usually animated gear organization rituals. Linc's easy chatter dried up every time a camera swung toward him. Even Knox, dismissive of the whole production, kept glancing at the lenses like they were snipers.

"If one of those red lights blinks at me again," he muttered, "I'm drop-kicking it into the parking lot."

Thatcher walked in with his media smile already locked in place. He used it as his armor.

We were supposed to be real today. Let the cameras film whatever happened.

Instead, we were already performing again.

"Alright, men," I said, standing to address the room. "Let's focus on our systems work today. Clean execution."

Generic captain-speak. Safe and uninspiring. Around me, nineteen guys nodded, lacking enthusiasm.

Blake praised me from behind his camera: "That's perfect. Natural leadership."

Natural. Right.

On the ice, everything I'd feared unfolded in slow motion.

First shift out, I glanced toward the cameras instead of reading the play developing in front of me. That half-second of divided attention cost me. The opposing scrimmage squad stripped the puck while I was performing awareness instead of being aware.

"Fuck," I muttered, chasing the play.

"Language, Captain," Rachel called from behind the glass. "We're recording everything."

As if I could forget.

Thatcher's struggles were more visible than mine. Every time he touched the puck, he tried to create something spectacular. Passes that weren't there. Shots from impossible angles. The natural chemistry we'd built over months crumbled under the weight of manufactured drama.

"Come on, men!" I called out. My voice sounded hollow and desperate.

The scrimmage turned into a clinic on how external pressure could destroy internal cohesion. Blake kept calling for "more intensity" while we delivered less competence.

The breaking point came midway through the third period.

Thatcher carried the puck into their zone with two defensemen converging on him.

I was open at the far post—an easy pass for an almost certain goal.

Instead, he tried to thread the needle with a shot from a terrible angle. The puck sailed wide.

In the old days, I would have skated over and had words. Instead, I calculated how it would look on camera—the stern captain correcting his troubled player.

I said nothing. Let the moment pass while the cameras rolled.

We lost the scrimmage 4-1 against ourselves.

In the locker room afterward, I stood to address the team as I always did after poor performances. It was time to deliver an honest assessment, constructive criticism, and refocus on what came next.

I looked around the room. "That wasn't our hockey. We played tight and forced plays that weren't there. Tomorrow we're getting back to basics—"

"Cut!" Blake's voice sliced through my words. I turned to find him frowning at his handheld monitor. "The lighting was off on that. Can we get it again?"

Twenty guys stared at me, waiting to see how I'd respond.

"Pardon me?"

"Your speech," Rachel clarified. "The camera caught some shadows across your face. For the documentary to work, we need clean shots of leadership moments."

My throat went dry. "You want me to give my speech again?"

"Only the key parts," Rachel said, hands fluttering in reassurance. "And maybe project a bit more authority? The audience can't connect with flatness. They need to feel what your guys are feeling. That's how they'll know it's real."

Knox snorted. "Want him to throw a chair, too? Or is that scheduled for tomorrow's shoot?"

I glanced around at my teammates—guys who'd trusted me for three years and looked to me for genuine leadership. I saw confusion and embarrassment.

"I..." My voice cracked. "Sure."

Thatcher stared at his skates. Knox glared like he wanted to punch something.

I cleared my throat and started over, raising my voice and hardening my expression for the cameras. "That wasn't our hockey out there. We played tight and forced plays that weren't there."

Around me, my teammates sat in uncomfortable silence while I performed disappointment for better camera angles.

"Tomorrow we get back to basics," I continued, hitting my marks like a trained actor. "Back to playing as a team."

"Perfect," Blake said. He checked the monitor and nodded. "That's the captain energy people can believe in. When they see this, they'll know you're the real deal."

When he finally called cut, Linc said, "Nice work, Coach Hollywood."

Nervous laughter rippled through the room—not malicious, but deadly nonetheless. The guys were trying to defuse tension with humor, but all I heard was confirmation that my leadership was now merely performance art.

Knox's voice cut through the laughter: "That's enough."

The damage was done. Coach Hollywood. I was the captain who needed better lighting for his speeches.

I mumbled something about reviewing film and escaped to my truck before anyone could see how deeply the nickname rattled me.

At home, I paced my apartment like a caged animal. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that locker room—my teammates' faces while I delivered my manufactured disappointment for the cameras. Thatcher had stared at his skates, too embarrassed to meet my eyes.

By eleven PM, I couldn't stand my four walls anymore. I drove to the rink, slipping in through the back entrance using my key card. The building was dark except for emergency lighting, quiet except for the hum of the ice plant.

I wasn't planning to skate. I only needed to be somewhere real.

When I pushed through the doors to the arena, I discovered I wasn't alone.

Thatcher stood at center ice in full gear, methodically firing slapshots at an empty net.

I watched from the shadows as he reset, wound up, and fired again. And again. Working through anger the only way hockey players knew how.

"You trying to put holes in the boards?" I called out, stepping onto the ice.

He glanced over but didn't stop shooting. "Might as well. Everything else is already fucked."

Another shot, harder than the last. The puck ricocheted off the crossbar with a metallic ping.

I skated closer, hands empty. "Bad day at the office?"

"Bad day being a trained seal." He stopped and leaned on his stick. Sweat dripped from his hair. "Did you see me out there? Trying to force highlight-reel plays because I knew the cameras were rolling?"

"I was too busy calculating my own camera angles."

"Hell." He laughed, but the humor had a bitter edge. "We're both fucked, aren't we?"

"Thoroughly."

He dragged a glove over his face. "If this was supposed to be my big comeback, it sure feels cold. Manufactured. Not ours."

I sat down on the ice, back against the boards. After a moment, Thatcher joined me, his breathing still heavy from the shooting session.

"I can't stop performing," he said quietly. "Even when I try to be real, it comes out fake. I have this ridiculous voice in my head saying 'make sure they get your good side' and 'that'll look great in slow motion.'"

"Coach Hollywood," I muttered.

"What?"

"That's what they're calling me now. Linc coined it after Blake made me redo my speech for better lighting."

Thatcher winced. "Fuck, Gideon."

"The worst part is, he wasn't wrong. I stood there and performed disappointment like I was auditioning for a play." I traced a groove in the ice with a fingertip. "Made me wonder if any of it was ever real."

"It was real," I heard quiet certainty in Thatcher's voice.

"Then why can't I access that when the cameras are rolling?"

"Cameras fuck with your head. The second you know they're there, you start acting instead of being." He pulled off his helmet, running fingers through his sweaty hair. "I've been putting on a show for so long, I don't know how to turn it off."

We sat in the cold, sharing our truth. Around us, the empty arena was a giant confessional—a place where honesty was possible because no one was watching.

"I used to love this." I gestured at the ice. "Before I had to think about leadership and setting examples and being the steady one, I got to play."

"When did it stop being fun?"

"When I put the C on my jersey. Suddenly, every decision mattered and every word carried weight. I had to be perfect all the time." I looked at him. "When did it stop for you?"

"When I realized my dad only called when he was disappointed. It made me think you earned approval by never making mistakes." More bitter laughter erupted from Thatcher. "Turns out screwing up on camera is one of the worst crimes."

"At least your mistakes are honest. Mine are calculated now."

"Want to know something fucked up?" He turned to face me. "You know what I was thinking about during that rush? Not the pass, not the defense. Whether the cameras could see my face when I scored."

"Did you score?"

"Hell no. Completely whiffed it because I was worried about looking pretty on TV."

We both laughed, but it wasn't funny. The only alternative was screaming.

"We should head in," I said eventually. "Get warm."

"Yeah."

The locker room was dark, lit only by security lighting that cast everything in shadows. I turned on the showers, letting hot water chase away the chill while steam began to fill the space.

Thatcher appeared beside me, still in his gear. We undressed in comfortable silence.