Page 24 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

In the shower, under the hot water, I let my eyes drift closed and tried to wash away the day's artificial moments.

"Gideon."

I opened my eyes to find Thatcher standing closer than necessary, water streaming down his muscular chest.

"What if they only like the version of me on film?" he whispered.

There it was, the fear underneath his careful structuring of his image and persona. What if the real him wasn't enough?

Instead of answering with words, I reached out and touched his face. My thumb traced his cheekbone and the scar on his chin I'd wondered about since day one.

He leaned into the touch, eyes closing.

I kissed him, soft and certain. It said I see you. The real you. And that's who I choose.

His arms wrapped around me, gently touching the surgical scars he'd discovered in our hotel room.

"This," I said against his lips. "This is real."

"Yeah?"

"Everything else is noise."

Steam curled thick around us, turning the locker room into a blurred cocoon. The hiss of water filled the silence until Thatcher leaned against the tile a little too close, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with intent.

"You ever notice," he said, his breath hot against my collarbone, "that the cameras never catch us like this?"

I chuckled, trying to ignore how his proximity caused goosebumps. "Pretty sure the network doesn't want shower footage."

"Shame," he murmured, as his gaze traveled down my body, lingering where water trailed over my hips. Then, he tipped his head back, exposing the strong column of his throat, and started humming—low, rough, almost a growl that vibrated through the small space between us.

Not a song I knew. It wasn't polished. Instead, it was intentionally filthy, a melody that felt like fingers trailing down my spine. He improvised a line under his breath, crooning off-key:

"Hot water and hockey boys, steam rising higher, bodies slick with hunger..."

I laughed, startled and unmistakably aroused, my cock twitching visibly between us. Before I could get a word out, he leaned in, lips brushing my ear, teeth grazing the sensitive lobe as his voice dropped into a husky mock-ballad:

"Captain looks better when he's dripping, not wired... when he's coming undone for me."

It was ridiculous. It was funny. And it set every nerve of mine on fire, blood rushing south so fast it made me dizzy.

"Fuck, Thatcher," I managed.

"What? I'm giving you authenticity," he teased, eyes glinting as he grabbed my hip. "Unfiltered, raw content. Blake would kill for this."

I shoved at his shoulder, but he didn't move. The water ran down the defined ridges of his chest and abs, while he hummed another nonsense line, sliding closer until our thighs touched, his erection brushing mine.

It wasn't about being smooth. It was about being us, making intimacy playful, shameless, and impossible to package.

When I kissed him, he was still half-singing against my mouth, breath vibrating into me, turning laughter into lust as his tongue slid against mine. He gripped my ass, pulling me flush against him, both of us groaning.

And for once, there was no audience. No cameras. Only the sound of him—rough, messy, absolutely real—drowning out everything else as we moved together under the spray.

There was nothing gentle about Thatcher's hands. He gripped my hip, water-slicked, and mashed me back against the wall, cock pressed flush against mine.

He jerked us both off with one hand, rough and perfect. He didn't care about technique, just about wringing every last drop of pleasure out of me.

My legs were shaky, braced between the wall and his thigh. I wanted to say his name and make a joke, call him "Thatch" like his buddies in high school probably did, but all that came out was a strangled sound, helpless and raw.

He flattened his palm against my chest, pinning me in place. My cock twitched in his grip, and he laughed, a deliciously horny sound. "Go on," he rasped.

My eyes squeezed shut. I shoved my face into his shoulder and bit down, just to muffle the groan when I came. He jerked once more, and then he was right there with me, shouting out a curse, "Fucking hell!" as his cock pulsed against my hip.

He didn't move. Neither did I. My thighs trembled and my knuckles stung where I'd gripped the tile.

Thatcher started to laugh again—quiet, at first, then harder, wild and giddy, how he did after goals that shouldn't have gone in. It was contagious. I grinned, and he caught me around the neck and half-hugged me, both of us shaking with aftershocks.

The water continued to flow over us. My heartbeat slowed, and my brain caught up with my body.

Thatcher finally leaned back and looked at the silvery streaks on both our chests. "I'm not cleaning that up."

I smacked his shoulder. "Don't start. We'll do it together."

Getting dressed afterward was like pulling on a suit of armor.

"Tomorrow," I said, "We meet early. Before the cameras arrive."

"Just us?"

"Just us. I want to remember what our hockey is like without an audience."

Thatcher nodded, then paused by the door. "Gideon?"

"Yeah?"

"Everyone always wants to fix my shit or tell me why I shouldn't feel it. You just touched my face like it was okay to be scared."

As he left the locker room, I sat on the bench and pulled out my phone, scrolling to the team group chat where someone had already posted a video of our disastrous scrimmage. Comments rolled in from guys making jokes about the documentary and Coach Hollywood with his lighting requirements.

Knox sent a private message:

Knox: Don't let them get in your head, Cap. We know who you are

My teammates hadn't lost faith in me because of one bad day or a manufactured speech. They were protecting something, too—the authentic leader they'd been following for three years, not the version Blake wanted to package for streaming audiences.

I replied with a message to the entire group:

Gideon: Early practice tomorrow. 7 AM. Just us

The responses came quickly:

Linc: Thank fuck. Need to remember how to play hockey

Pluto: Will there be coffee? Important question

Knox: Only if Hollywood brings his ring light

They took the sting out of the nickname, making it belong to us instead of the cameras.

I turned off the lights and headed for my truck. Tomorrow, we'd start with no cameras, narrative, or self-conscious performance. Only twenty guys and the game we'd fallen in love with before anyone told us how to package it for consumption.

In the parking lot, I spotted Thatcher's car still running. He was waiting, making sure I didn't leave alone.

When I pulled up beside him, he rolled down his window.

"You good?" he asked.

"Getting there."

"See you at seven."

"See you at seven."

I watched his taillights disappear around the corner, then checked my phone again. The team chat had gone quiet except for Knox posting a single word:

Knox: Finally

The drive home was three songs on the radio and two red lights. I was already thinking about tomorrow's drills when I pulled into my parking spot. 7 AM couldn't come fast enough.