Page 29 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter twenty

Gideon

I arrived at the practice facility forty minutes early, hoping for a pocket of silence before the final day of filming.

Instead, the conference room had been swallowed by chaos—floodlights blazing against the walls, cords snaking across the floor, the air humming with static.

Blake hunched over a monitor in a coffee-stained shirt, hair sticking up as if he'd been fighting with it all night, muttering curses at the screen.

"No, no, no," he grumbled. "The audio's fucked on the B-roll. How am I supposed to—" He looked up and spotted me. "Gideon! Thank God. We need to talk."

Rachel paced behind him, phone pressed to her ear, her professional composure cracking. "No, we can't push the deadline again. I understand the Christmas slot is crucial, but—" She caught my eye and held up one finger, mouthing "sorry."

Blake rubbed his face with both hands. "My kid's Christmas recital is tonight," he said quietly, more to himself than to me. "This better wrap clean."

The vulnerability in his voice caught me off guard. I'd seen him as the enemy for days—the guy trying to package our lives for consumption. Standing there in his wrinkled shirt, exhausted and desperate, he looked like any other working parent trying to balance impossible demands.

"Rough night?" I asked.

"Rough month." He gestured at the monitor. "The network's breathing down our necks. Last three documentaries tanked in the ratings. If this one doesn't hit their demo targets..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but I heard what he wasn't saying. People's jobs were on the line. Mortgages. Kids' college funds. The pressure to turn our story into something marketable. It was also about creative vision and survival.

Rachel ended her call and immediately grabbed another coffee, her hands shaking slightly. "Network wants the final cut by New Year's Eve," she announced. "That means we need our money shot today."

"Money shot?" I asked.

Blake straightened, his desperation temporarily masked by professional enthusiasm. "The climactic moment. Thatcher's redemption speech. His reconciliation with his father. The emotional payoff that makes the whole journey worthwhile."

I sighed. "You're going to ambush him."

"Not ambush," Rachel said quickly. "Guide. Help him find the words to express his growth."

Around us, the crew finished their setup. Exhaustion dragged at their movements. They glanced at Blake and Rachel with concern. This wasn't an ordinary day at the office for any of them.

The team started filtering in for practice, and I watched their reactions to the elaborate setup.

Knox took one look at the lighting rigs and muttered something about Hollywood bullshit.

Pluto immediately started calculating whether the equipment was worth more than our team bus.

Bricks hovered near the door, looking for an escape route.

Thatcher appeared last, and I watched him pause in the doorway.

"Showtime," he said under his breath.

Practice was artificial. Thatcher forced every play, trying too hard to create highlight-reel moments for the cameras. I found myself overcompensating, too, barking orders that sounded fake.

During a water break, I heard Blake talking to his camera operator. "Ensure you get good coverage of the interaction between Sawyer and Drake. We'll need those shots for the mentorship montage."

Mentorship montage. Fuck.

After practice, Blake cornered Thatcher in the equipment room. I was heading to the shower when I heard voices—Blake's pleading tone carrying through the thin walls.

"Please, Thatcher, I need this to work."

I stopped, pretending to check my phone while I listened.

"The network's breathing down our necks. Three documentaries. Three failures. My mortgage depends on this. Rachel's daughter's college fund..." He cleared his throat. "But this is your chance to show them who you really are. Your father's watching this. The league office. This is your moment."

Thatcher's voice was tight when he replied. "That's not what this is about."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't come to Richmond to prove anything to my father or the league office. I came here because I had nowhere else to go."

Rachel's voice joined the conversation. "That's perfect. That vulnerability. The rock bottom that leads to redemption. Tell us about earning respect. About the man you've become."

I wanted to barge in and end it, but something held me back. Maybe it was seeing Blake's exhaustion and Rachel's desperation. They weren't evil. They were trapped in a system that demanded performance. I understood.

Still, that didn't make it right.

An hour later, Thatcher sat in the conference room under the harsh lights, looking like he was facing a firing squad. Blake had positioned the cameras for maximum dramatic effect. Rachel clutched her clipboard to her chest.

"Just be natural," Blake said.

Blake nervously adjusted camera angles, hands shaking slightly from too much caffeine. "Okay, let's start simple. Tell us about growth. About learning from mistakes."

Thatcher gave careful, media-trained responses that revealed nothing.

Blake pushed harder, and his voice signaled desperation. "What would you say to your father right now about the man you've become?"

Thatcher's facade cracked slightly.

"I'd tell him to go fuck himself."

Stunned silence. The cameras kept rolling.

Blake's quiet "Oh shit" was audible.

"I'm not performing redemption for anyone anymore," Thatcher continued, standing up. "Find your ending somewhere else."

He walked out, leaving the crew looking defeated.

Blake slumped in his chair. Rachel fought back tears.

"What do we tell the network?" she asked.

"My wife's going to kill me," Blake muttered.

For a moment, they were just two people facing professional catastrophe. Rachel straightened, and Blake turned to me with renewed hope.

"You've got the gravitas, Captain," Blake said. "End our film with something inspiring about second chances and leadership."

Rachel added, "We're drowning here. Please."

The weight of their desperation settled on my shoulders. I wanted to help them. They had families, bills to pay, and careers hanging in the balance.

But Thatcher was my guy, and my team was my responsibility.

"I need time to prepare," I said. "One more day."

Blake breathed out. "Of course. Whatever you need."

As they reset their equipment, I heard Blake talking to Rachel in what he thought was a private moment.

"I used to want to tell real stories," he said quietly. "Now I need to keep my job."

I found Thatcher in the parking lot, sitting in his car with the engine running but going nowhere. I knocked on the passenger window, and he unlocked the doors.

"You okay?" I asked, sliding into the seat beside him.

"They wanted me to perform gratitude for my own humiliation." His voice was raw. "Smile and thank them for the opportunity to prove I'd learned my lesson."

"I heard."

"I saw Blake's face when I walked out. He looked terrified."

I nodded. "They're people too. Desperate people, but still people."

"Doesn't make it right." Thatcher gripped the steering wheel. "I won't be their redemption story. I don't need fixing."

"They want me to do the interview instead."

He turned to look at me. "They want you to validate their version of me."

"Yeah."

We sat together as the engine hummed softly.

"What are you going to do?" Thatcher asked.

"I don't know yet."

As I said it, something clicked into place.

"Get together tonight? When you're ready to talk it through?"

I nodded.

We sat there another moment, the weight of tomorrow's choice settling between us. Then Thatcher squeezed my shoulder and I got out, heading for my truck. I watched his taillights disappear around the corner before starting my engine.

The drive home gave me time to think, but my mind kept circling back to the same conclusion. I wasn't going to validate their narrative. Not about Thatcher or any of it.

That night, the team house was mostly empty... Pluto and Linc had gone to a Christmas market downtown. Knox was probably at a bar, complaining about the documentary to anyone who'd listen.

I ended up in my room with Thatcher, something that would have sent me into a panic spiral a month ago. Now it felt natural. Right.

"Tell me about your dad," I said as we settled on my bed, still fully clothed but close enough to touch.

Thatcher was quiet for a long moment. "He's not evil. Just... transactional. Everything's about value and return on investment. Including me."

"That's fucked up."

"It's what I know." He reached out and wove his fingers together with mine. "I spent so long trying to be worth his attention that I forgot what I wanted."

"What do you want now?"

He looked at me, and something in his expression made my breath catch. "I want to stop apologizing for existing. I want to help Bricks with his panic attacks without wondering what it does for my image. I want to make terrible paper snowflakes with seven-year-olds because it makes them laugh."

"And?"

"I want to be with you without having to explain, justify, or prove I'm worthy of it." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm not broken, Gideon. I'm in love with you."

I instantly realized I'd been waiting to hear those words, hoping for them, and now that he'd said them, they were nerve-wracking.

"Thatcher—"

"I know it's scary. I know you've spent your whole life controlling everything and being Mr. Perfect for everybody. I'm not asking for that. I want you to be real."

"I love you too," I said.

The kiss that followed was different from all the others. Slower. Deliberate. Built on the foundation of truth instead of desperate need.

When Thatcher's fingers began unbuttoning my shirt, I didn't tense up or calculate how it would look. I let him undress me with the reverence of someone who'd earned the right to see my scars, my broken places, and my carefully hidden vulnerabilities.