Page 31 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter twenty-one

Thatcher

T he locker room buzzed with a different kind of energy thirty minutes before puck drop. No cameras. No documentary crew. No Blake hovering with his clipboard, calculating the emotional value of our pre-game rituals.

We were twenty guys getting ready to play hockey on New Year's Eve.

I'd never realized how much space the cameras had occupied until they were gone. The room felt bigger, louder, and more alive.

Pluto explained his New Year's resolution to eat more vegetables while simultaneously unwrapping what appeared to be a candy bar the size of a phone book. Bricks practiced his stick handling in the corner, loose and confident, instead of looking over his shoulder, fearing judgment.

Knox sat in his stall, methodically taping his stick and muttering what sounded like either a prayer or a very detailed threat to Norfolk's power play unit.

"Ready?" Gideon appeared beside me as I pulled my jersey over my head. His voice was quiet, meant only for me.

"Yeah." I smoothed down the fabric, feeling the weight of the number on my back. "You?"

"Getting there." He squeezed my shoulder. "This one feels different."

He was right. Since the documentary crew had packed up and driven away, the manufactured drama was gone, replaced by genuine anticipation. We'd been playing good hockey for weeks, but this grudge match with Norfolk tested whether we were becoming something real.

"Alright, men." Coach stepped into the center of the room, and twenty conversations died instantly. "Norfolk's coming in here looking for payback from our last meeting. They're hungry, and they're desperate."

He paused, scanning the room.

"Good thing we're hungrier."

Gideon stood, and the room's attention shifted to him—no acting or calculated leadership, only the natural gravity of someone his teammates trusted.

"We've been building something outstanding all season. We stretch it to the limits tonight and see if it's solid." His eyes found mine for a split second before moving on. "Trust your instincts. Trust each other. Play our game."

Around the room, heads nodded. Gloves slapped against shin pads. Knox cracked his knuckles.

"On three," Gideon called out. "What do we do?"

"REAP THE WIN!"

The sound echoed off the walls, genuine and fierce. As we filed toward the tunnel, Grimmy fell into step beside me. He was unusually quiet—no pre-game commentary about harvesting souls or ominous weather conditions.

"You good, Grimmy?" I asked.

The skull tilted toward me. "Never better," came his muffled reply. "Tonight feels like headline material."

Before I could ask what he meant, we moved onto the ice, and the crowd's roar greeted us.

The game started like a boxing match—both teams circling, testing, looking for an opening. Norfolk came out aggressive, trying to establish their revenge narrative early. They hit everything that moved and chirped constantly.

I kept my mouth shut and played hockey.

The first period was feeling-out time. Both goalies looked sharp, and the few chances that developed got snuffed out quickly. The crowd was into it—louder than usual—like they sensed something important was happening.

Back in the locker room during the first intermission, Coach kept it simple. "Stay patient. Our chances will come."

In the second period, the tempo changed. Midway through, Norfolk took a penalty—boarding Knox, which was both stupid and dangerous. Our power play unit took the ice.

The puck movement was crisp. Everyone knew where everyone else would be. When Linc fed me a pass at the blue line, I didn't have to think about the next play. I knew Gideon would be driving toward the net, creating space. Pluto would be cycling low, keeping their defense honest.

The pass I threaded through traffic found Gideon's tape where I knew it would be. He one-timed it past their goalie.

Our celebration was pure joy. No calculation or speculation about how it would look in highlight packages. It was raw satisfaction with our textbook execution.

The crowd stayed on their feet for the following three shifts, and I realized something was happening in Richmond. These weren't polite hockey fans tolerating minor league entertainment. They were believers.

Norfolk tied it with eight minutes left in regulation. It was a lucky bounce off Bricks's glove that squeezed through his five- hole. The arena went quiet for about thirty seconds before the noise returned, doubled.

"Finish it!" someone yelled from the stands.

We got another power play with three minutes left, but their penalty kill held. Regulation ended 1-1, and suddenly we were playing overtime hockey on New Year's Eve.

Four-on-four overtime was chaotic. More room to move, but the space magnified every mistake. Norfolk had a two-on-one that Bricks stoned with a glove save. We answered with a rush that hit their crossbar so hard the ping echoed through the arena.

Then, with forty-seven seconds left in overtime, good fortune was on our side.

Knox broke up a pass at our blue line and immediately looked for the outlet. I was already moving, reading the developing rush, and his pass hit me in stride at center ice. Gideon drove down the right side, drawing their defenseman. The goalie cheated toward him, anticipating a pass.

Time slowed. I saw the entire play developing like I was staring at a chessboard.

I held the puck for one extra beat, signaling a pass to Gideon. The defenseman committed. The goalie shifted.

Then, I buried a wrist shot short side, top shelf, before their goalie could recover.

The arena exploded with cheers.

I'd scored game-winners before, but nothing like that. The noise was deafening. Fans hugged strangers. The entire building shook as bodies jumped and stomped and celebrated.

My teammates poured over the boards like we'd won the Stanley Cup. Gideon reached me first, sweeping me up in a hug that lifted my skates off the ice. Knox screamed something I couldn't hear over the crowd. Pluto tackled both of us, followed by Linc and everyone else.

Even Bricks left his crease to join the pile, his mask pushed up, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

When we returned to the locker room, the guys were still coming down from the high of overtime. Someone had turned up the music, and Pluto was attempting to dance while still wearing his shoulder pads.

"Did you see their faces when Drake scored?" Bricks was saying to anyone who'd listen. "That goalie looked like he'd seen a ghost."

"Textbook snipe," Knox agreed, toweling off his hair. "Kid picked his corner and buried it."

I was still floating, with the buzz of the goal humming through my body.

Wren appeared in the doorway with her clipboard and an expression that meant business. "Gentlemen, the local media wants a few minutes. The usual post-game stuff, but they're excited about the win. Try to stay coherent."

We gathered in the hallway outside our locker room, still in our gear. The small media contingent had grown—I recognized reporters from the Richmond paper and the local TV station, but there were also faces I didn't know. Word was getting out that the Reapers might actually be worth watching.

"Hell of a game, Drake," said Jim Sadler from the Richmond Observer . "How's it feel to be the overtime hero on New Year's Eve?"

Standard softball question. Easy answer. "Team win. The guys played great, and Bricks was outstanding. Just happy we could give the fans something to celebrate."

"But this has to feel like vindication," pressed another reporter I didn't recognize. "After everything you've been through, scoring the winner in a game like this—it's almost poetic justice."

There it was—the narrative they couldn't bury.

"I'm just trying to help the team win games. Individual stuff doesn't matter."

"Come on, Thatcher." The reporter smiled like we were old friends. "Your journey from rock bottom to this moment—surely there's some personal satisfaction in proving the doubters wrong?"

My jaw tensed. Around me, my teammates stared. They sensed the direction the reporter was heading.

"I don't think of it as rock bottom," I said carefully. "I think of it as—"

"He doesn't need redemption."

Gideon's voice cut through the hallway with quiet authority. He stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of me, and faced the media cluster.

"He's not a story you get to write," he continued, his captain's voice firm. "He's ours."

The silence that followed was profound. Cameras stopped clicking. Pens stopped moving. Even the reporter pushing the redemption angle seemed stunned by the directness of Gideon's response.

I stared at the back of his head. In all my years of dealing with the media, no one had ever stepped between me and their questions. No one had ever claimed me with such public ferocity.

My teammates formed a loose circle around us. Not planned or coordinated—an instinctive protective move of their own.

Knox stepped up on my left. "Kid's been our guy since day one."

Linc moved to my right. "Never needed fixing. He only needed the right teammates."

"He makes us better," Pluto added from behind me. "Simple as that."

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, and I fought them back. It was what I'd been looking for my entire life. A sense of belonging, freely given and fiercely defended.

The media ate it up—cameras captured every moment of spontaneous solidarity.

I detected new movement in my peripheral vision. Grimmy was approaching the media cluster, his usual animated energy replaced by purposeful strides.

He stopped directly in front of the primary camera, skull head tilting slightly as if considering his options. Then, with slow, methodical movements, he reached up and grasped the bottom edge of his costume head.

Everyone froze.

Grimmy—Jet—had never removed his mask in public. Ever. It was his thing, his identity. It was a way of maintaining the mystery that made him effective as our mascot.

He lifted the skull head clear and set it carefully on the floor beside him.

Jet stood there in his Reapers jersey, thinning hair damp with sweat, kind eyes blinking in the bright lights. He looked like any other guy in his thirties who'd spent two hours entertaining a hockey crowd.

He studied the cameras for a moment, then looked directly at the reporter who'd been pushing the redemption narrative.

"Headline material," he said, completely deadpan.

The hallway erupted.

Laughter, cheers, and applause echoed off the walls as twenty guys lost it. The media joined in, cameras flashing frantically as they tried to capture the moment. Someone started a chant of "JET! JET! JET!" that spread through the entire crowd.

We surrounded him—teammates, reporters, even the camera operators joining a massive group celebration. Jet stood in the center, grinning like he'd scored the game-winner himself.

I pressed against Gideon's shoulder, both laughing so hard we could barely stand. Around us, the boundaries between team and media had completely dissolved. It was a crowd of people celebrating something genuinely funny and beautiful.

"That's our guy," Gideon said in my ear, his voice warm with affection and pride.

"All of them," I said back. "They're all our guys."

Through the chaos, I caught Jet's eye. He winked at me, and I understood. The moment was his gift to all of us—the perfect punctuation mark for an ideal night.

By the time I returned to the locker room, most of the guys had already changed and headed out. I sat in my stall, phone in my hands, staring at the dark screen.

No messages.

My father hadn't watched and hadn't called. Hadn't sent even a perfunctory congratulations text about the game-winner.

Six months ago, that silence would have destroyed me. I would have spent hours crafting the perfect message to send him, fishing for acknowledgment of my accomplishments.

I finally realized I didn't need it.

"Ready?" Gideon appeared beside me, gear bag over his shoulder.

"Yeah." I stood, shouldering my own bag. "More than ready."

We walked toward the exit together, our footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. Through the walls, I heard the distant sounds of the arena settling—chairs being stacked, and the Zamboni preparing for its final run.

"Gideon?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For what you said out there."

He paused at the door, turning to face me. "I meant it. Every word."

"I know you did. That's what made it perfect."

"How does it feel to be ours?"

"Like coming home."