Page 28 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter nineteen

Thatcher

T he coaching gear always gave them away.

Something about how they positioned themselves in the stands, tracking plays instead of following the puck.

Two days after Christmas, during our morning practice, this one sat alone in section B, forearms on his knees, reading our drills like flipping through pages in a textbook.

About thirty, athletic build. He wore a Richmond Juniors jacket. During my next lap, I saw Gideon looking up at the stranger, tense.

"Who's your friend?" I asked during a water break.

Gideon's water bottle slipped from his grasp, clattering against the boards.

"Fuck."

"Bad fuck or good fuck?"

"Complicated fuck."

Practice continued, but something changed. Gideon's game tightened. He was forcing it. Passes became surgical. Positioning turned textbook perfect. Something was eating at him.

The stranger kept watching. Not casual observation—focused study.

After conditioning, while guys complained about burning lungs and grabbed their gear, footsteps echoed in the hallway. Measured and confident.

Coach appeared with our visitor. "Jordan Mitchell, Richmond Juniors. Heard you were in town for the post-holiday tournament."

My jaw dropped. Jordan Mitchell. J.M. from the shrine behind my radiator, paired with G.S. in that carefully carved heart.

The ghost from my cursed room had suddenly materialized.

He looked like someone who'd spent three years learning to live with consequences.

"Hello, Gideon." His voice was carefully neutral. "Captain suits you."

"Jordan." Gideon's response came out strangled. "Good to—" He stopped, started again. "You look good."

Coach handled introductions with his usual efficiency. Jordan knew Knox from his playing days and remembered Pluto, too. When he reached me, his handshake lingered a fraction too long.

"The comeback story everyone's talking about." He glanced at Gideon. "Takes courage to start over."

"Some days," I said, studying his face for signs of what he knew.

"Most days, actually. Gets easier, though."

Guys filtered out gradually. Knox lingered, shooting glances between Jordan and Gideon like he was waiting for the next hit along the boards. Finally, he gathered his gear and left.

Three of us were left. The air was thick and heavy.

"I have ice time at the junior facility," Jordan said. "Getting some skating in before we head back tomorrow. You two want to—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I mean, if you're not busy."

Gideon hesitated. He was calculating risks.

"Sure," I said before he could find an excuse. "Always up for ice time."

My bold decision surprised me. Maybe I needed to see this play out.

The drive to the junior rink took fifteen minutes through Richmond's residential maze. Jordan rode shotgun in my car while Gideon followed in his truck.

"I coach sixteen to eighteen-year-olds now," he explained. He fidgeted with the seat belt. "Teaching them things I wish someone had taught me."

"Like what?"

"That running away doesn't solve anything. It only changes the location of your problems."

The junior facility was smaller than our practice rink and older. We laced up in a cramped visitor's room.

"Been a while since I've been here," Jordan said, testing the fit of borrowed skates. "Used to scrimmage here sometimes. Back when—" He stopped himself.

"Back when what?" I asked.

He glanced at Gideon. "Back when things were different."

On the ice, I immediately understood the lurking dangers.

Jordan and Gideon moved together like they'd never been apart. Their positioning created opportunities through pure instinct. Three years might have passed, but their hockey chemistry remained intact.

I watched them work together, and something ugly twisted in my gut. I saw both what Jordan had walked away from and what I'd stepped into.

We took a water break. "You two still have it," I said.

Jordan leaned against the boards, breathing hard. "Some things stick. Even when you wish they wouldn't."

"Do you wish they wouldn't?"

He studied me carefully. "Answer's complicated."

We skated for twenty more minutes. Every drill revealed more of their shared history. I skated harder, trying to break their rhythm and insert myself into patterns that had existed before I'd ever set foot in Richmond.

During our final break, Jordan gathered his strength and spoke boldly.

"So." He gripped his stick. "Heard you two figured out what I was too scared to try."

Gideon froze.

"Jordan—"

"It's okay." His voice cracked slightly. "I'm not here to—" He stopped and tried again. "I owe you both an explanation. Especially you, Gideon."

He pushed off the boards, skating slow circles while he gathered courage.

"I carved our initials into that puck because I thought—" He gave a fragile chuckle. "Damn, this sounds stupid and naive. I thought if I made it permanent somehow, it would become real."

Gideon's face was pale. "You never said anything."

"I was terrified. I thought the team might find out, and management would make decisions that would ruin our careers. I told myself I was protecting us."

He stopped circling and faced us directly.

"I was protecting myself. From rejection and having to be brave."

"Jordan." Gideon's voice was barely audible.

"I requested the trade." The words rushed out. "Made up some stupid story about ice time and development opportunities. Management bought it because it sounded professional. You bought it because I gave you no reason to question my motivation."

There it was—a confession.

"You asked to leave?"

"I ran away." Jordan's voice cracked completely. "Convinced myself that was the mature thing to do. The responsible choice. Took me three years to realize I'd chosen the coward's way out."

Gideon stared at him like he was seeing a stranger. "Three years. You've been carrying this for three years?"

"Three years of wondering what would have happened had I been brave enough to stay. To fight for—" He gestured at us. "For whatever this could have been."

I felt awkward—like an intruder—as I watched it unfold, but I couldn't look away. Gideon's mouth dropped open as he stared at Jordan.

"I didn't know," he said finally. "About how you felt. If I had—"

"Would it have changed anything?"

It was a huge question.

Jordan nodded like the silence was answer enough.

"That's what I figured. That's what I told myself, anyway. Easier than finding out for sure."

I found my voice. "So you just left."

"I just left." He looked at me directly. "And spent the next three years watching the Reapers from a distance, wondering if I'd thrown away the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Watching us?" Gideon asked.

"League's not that big. Word gets around about who's playing where and who's doing what. When I heard about Drake joining Richmond, I figured it was only a matter of time before—" He looked at me. "Before this."

A sour taste rose in my throat. "Before what?"

"Before Gideon stopped fighting himself long enough to let someone in."

The observation was accurate—on target.

"I found peace coaching," Jordan continued. "Teaching kids that authenticity makes you stronger, not weaker. I'll always wonder what would have happened if I'd been brave enough to make a different decision."

He looked at Gideon. "I'm glad you found someone willing to fight for it."

He returned his gaze to me. "Take care of him. And let him take care of you."

We gathered our gear in uncomfortable silence. Jordan's revelation changed something between the three of us, and none of us knew how to navigate the new terrain.

"Don't be like me," he said as we prepared to leave. "Don't wait until it's safe to be happy."

After he left, Gideon and I sat in the visitors' locker room, processing what had just happened. The silence was nearly unbearable.

"I never knew," Gideon said finally. "About how he felt. I swear to God, Thatcher, I had no idea."

"I believe you."

"Do you? Because if you think—if you think this changes anything between us—"

"Does it?"

The question slipped out before I could stop it. Gideon flinched.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if you'd known how he felt three years ago, would you have—" I couldn't finish my sentence.

"Would I have what?"

"Chosen him instead."

Gideon stared at me for a long moment, then laughed—a sharp, bitter sound.

"Fuck, Thatcher. Is that what you think? That you're some consolation prize?"

"I don't know what to think. I just watched you two skate together like you were made for it. Like you fit in ways that—" I stopped myself.

"That we don't?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." He stood abruptly. "You want to know the truth? Fine. Jordan and I had chemistry on the ice. Great chemistry. We read each other's games perfectly."

He stopped pacing and faced me.

"But that's all it was. Chemistry. Not connection. Not understanding. And sure as hell not love."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I never felt safe enough to fall asleep on his shoulder in front of twenty guys. I never told him about my back surgery or let him see my scars. I never hummed stupid songs with him in the shower or carved our names in my heart." He slapped his chest with an open palm.

His voice grew more intense.

"Jordan was my teammate. You're my—" He stopped, searching for words. "You're my person. There's a difference."

I wanted to believe him. Part of me did believe him. Another part—the part that remembered being the backup plan in every meaningful relationship and getting left behind by my team—whispered doubts I couldn't quite silence.

"I need some air," I said.

Outside, the parking lot was empty except for our cars and the distant sound of traffic. I leaned against my car.

Gideon appeared beside me, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"Talk to me," he said.

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit. You look like someone kicked your dog."

I laughed despite myself. "Maybe someone did."

"Thatcher." His voice was gentle but firm. "What's really going on here?"

I stared at the sky, searching for words that wouldn't make me sound like an insecure teenager.

"I keep thinking about that shrine and how he carved your initials with so much care. Then I think about how the two of you moved together on the ice, and I wonder—"

"What?"

"If I'm just the guy who happened to be there when you finally decided to stop being afraid."

The silence that followed stretched until I thought it wouldn't end. When Gideon finally spoke, his voice was rough with emotion.

"You want to know what I was afraid of? It wasn't being gay. It wasn't hockey politics, career consequences, or any of that shit."

He turned to face me fully.

"I was afraid of being seen. Really seen. All the way down to the parts of myself I'd learned to hide. Jordan never asked to see those parts. You demanded them."

"I never demanded anything."

"You did from the first day. You looked at me like you expected me to be real, not perfect. Like my broken parts were worth knowing." He stepped closer. "That's terrifying."

"Gideon—"

"I'm not done." His voice turned sharp. "Jordan loved the idea of me. A fantasy of what we could be if the world were different. You love me—broken back, shitty leadership skills, trust issues, and all. Even when I'm an emotional disaster."

His words hit hard, but doubt still gnawed at the edges.

"How do I know I'm not your consolation prize?"

Gideon was quiet for so long, I thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

"You want to know the difference between you and Jordan?"

I braced myself for another explanation about chemistry versus connection.

Instead, he touched my stick, running his thumb over the blue and white striped tape wrapped around the blade.

"I gave you my luck," he said quietly. "Three seasons of superstition. Three seasons of that tape getting me through every game that mattered. And you know what you did with it?"

I waited.

"You made it better. Every goal you've scored, every pass you've made with my tape—it's not mine anymore. It's ours." He started shaking. "Dammit, Thatcher, Jordan wanted to carve something permanent in secret. You took what I gave you and made it into something we built together."

He looked up at me, eyes bright.

"Jordan carved our initials and hid them. You wear mine on your stick where everyone can see."

I didn't know what to say. All this time that I'd been worried about being his second choice, I'd been carrying proof of his faith in me into every game.

"I never thought about it like that."

"That's the point. You didn't have to think about it. You took what I offered and made it part of who you are." He stepped closer. "Jordan wanted me to be his secret. You made me part of your game."

We drove back home in silence, each lost in private thoughts.

I followed Gideon into the team house.

"Are we okay?" he asked.

"I think so," I said. "Eventually."

"Eventually?"

"I need some time to process all this. To figure out what it means."

He nodded, understanding but clearly not liking my hesitance. "Take all the time you need. I'll be here when you're ready."

Inside, the house was quiet. Pluto and Linc were out somewhere, probably arguing about condiments while chugging overpriced craft beer. I climbed the stairs to my room, sat on the edge of my bed, and tried to make sense of the day.

Jordan's story wasn't only about regret but about choices and consequences and the courage required to build something real. He'd chosen safety over vulnerability, certainty over risk. The result was three years of wondering what might have been.

There was also an element of timing. Maybe Jordan and Gideon wouldn't have worked three years ago. Maybe Gideon needed those years to become someone who could choose love over fear. Perhaps I needed my own journey through failure and humiliation to become someone worth choosing.

My phone buzzed with a text from Gideon:

Gideon: For what it's worth, Jordan was right about one thing. I did stop fighting myself. Not because you made it safe—because you made it worth the risk

I stared at the message for a long time before responding:

Thatcher: Tomorrow?

Gideon: Tomorrow.

It wasn't the neat resolution I'd hoped for. Questions lingered. Doubts persisted. Maybe that's what happened in authentic relationships—messy, complicated, and worth fighting for anyway.

Tomorrow, I'd choose Gideon again. And the day after that. Until choosing him became as natural as breathing and as automatic as the rhythm of skates on ice.

It was enough. It was everything.