Page 32 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

I parked in the same spot I'd used since arriving in Richmond, but it didn't feel the same.

Thatcher's hand rested on my knee as we sat in my idling truck, both of us staring at the Richmond Reapers practice facility. Late August heat shimmered off the asphalt, and the familiar building looked the same—concrete walls, faded team logo, stubborn patch of grass that refused to grow properly.

Nine months ago, I would have calculated the optics of arriving together. I'd worry about who might see us. Next, I'd strategize the safest way to maintain professional distance while my heart ached over wanting him.

Now, he rubbed my jeans with his thumb, and I didn't check the parking lot for witnesses.

"Ready for this?" he asked.

"Yes." I covered his hand with mine. "You?"

"A little nervous about the new guys. I hope they fit."

I studied his profile—the strong line of his jaw, and the scar at his chin I'd memorized with my tongue. "They will. Knox'll make sure of it."

We'd picked up three new players over the summer. A defenseman from Wheeling, a center from Norfolk who'd requested the trade specifically to play in Richmond, and a rookie winger fresh out of juniors who'd apparently watched our documentary and decided we were the team he wanted to join.

The documentary. Fuck.

"Think anyone's seen the show?" Thatcher asked, reading my thoughts.

"Probably. Wren said it's been streaming steadily since June."

We climbed out of the truck, and I grabbed both our gear bags without thinking about it.

"Gideon!" Wren appeared before we'd made it ten feet, clipboard in one hand, coffee in the other. She'd been lying in wait. "Perfect timing. We need to discuss media requests."

"Good morning to you, too," Thatcher said.

"Pleasantries are for people who don't have eighteen interview requests sitting in their inbox." She fell into step beside us. "The documentary's been... interesting."

"Interesting how?"

"Critics can't agree if it's a failure or a masterpiece.

Half of them are calling it failed redemption porn that completely missed the point.

The other half are praising it as accidentally authentic sports storytelling.

" She sipped her coffee. " Rolling Stone said it subverted the sports documentary genre by refusing to provide catharsis. "

"That sounds bad," Thatcher said.

"Actually, it's perfect." Wren's smile was sharp. "If people can't decide if it's a failure or a masterpiece, that's how I know it worked. The audience numbers are solid—apparently, people are tired of overly manufactured sports narratives."

She paused at the entrance. "Also, Blake got picked up to direct a feature film about minor league baseball. Something about authentic working-class sports culture. Rachel's producing."

"Good for them."

The locker room hit us with the familiar smells of disinfectant and ancient sweat. It smelled like home.

Everything looked the same, but the energy was different. Lighter. The oppressive weight of performance anxiety that had choked us during filming was gone, replaced by genuine anticipation.

Bricks sat in his stall, methodically organizing his gear, and the first thing I noticed was the A stitched onto his practice jersey. Alternate captain. He'd earned it—not through politics or seniority, but by becoming the kind of player others looked to when games were tight.

"Morning, Cap," he said. "Knox is already giving the new center shit about his stick tape. I think he likes him."

Across the room, Knox had indeed cornered our new acquisition—a twenty-four-year-old named Flint who'd specifically requested a trade to Richmond after watching the documentary.

With elaborate hand gestures, Knox explained why players who used black tape were "aesthetically deficient" and probably had trust issues.

"Kid's got good hands," Knox said, "but terrible taste in equipment. We'll fix that."

Flint nodded thoughtfully, unsure if Knox was joking or delivering legitimate hockey wisdom. Smart money said it was both.

The door burst open with theatrical flair, and Grimmy clomped in wearing what appeared to be an upgraded costume. The skull head was the same, but his plastic hockey stick had become a scythe and now featured flame decals and what looked like a small motor that made the head of it spin.

"Behold!" his muffled voice announced. "The Reaper of Souls is enhanced for maximum psychological warfare!"

He demonstrated by pressing a button that made the scythe spin while LED lights flashed sequentially. The effect was spectacularly ridiculous.

"What the fuckin' hell," Knox muttered. "It's like a nightmare disco."

"Yes!" Grimmy pressed the button again, clearly delighted with himself. "Norfolk won't know what hit them."

The guys clustered around to examine the creation, offering suggestions for additional modifications that would make it even more absurd. Last season, Grimmy removing his mask was an exercise in vulnerability. This season, he'd doubled down on the character with total confidence.

I realized something fundamental had shifted for all of us. The documentary had forced us to confront the difference between authentic and performed. Instead of hiding behind careful personas, everyone felt free to be more themselves—even when that meant Grimmy with a motorized flaming scythe.

"Speaking of upgrades," Linc said from across the room, "Pluto and I finally got rid of that death trap couch."

"About time," someone called out.

"Yeah, we picked out a new one together," Pluto added casually, not looking up from his skate laces. "Spent three hours at the furniture store arguing about fabric."

Everyone stopped talking.

"Wait," Bricks said slowly. "Together together?"

Pluto glanced up, seemingly surprised by the attention. "Oh. Yeah, we're dating. Have been since Linc asked me to watch the 4th of July fireworks with him. Pass the tape."

The explosion was immediate.

"FINALLY!" Knox roared.

"I fucking KNEW it!" Flint shouted, despite having been on the team for exactly ten minutes.

"Did everyone know but me?" Bricks demanded.

"Pretty much," three voices said simultaneously.

The chaos was beautiful—guys shouting questions, Linc trying to explain their timeline, while Pluto attempted to continue his gear routine like nothing had happened. Someone started a "CUTE COUPLE" chant that echoed off the walls.

Watching them, I realized their story was only beginning.

I leaned against my stall, surveying the mayhem. This was what family looked like when nobody was performing for cameras. Messy, loud, and full of people choosing to celebrate each other.

Thatcher appeared beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. "Think we helped make this possible?" he asked quietly.

"Maybe. Or maybe everyone was waiting for permission to be real."

Coach appeared in the doorway, surveyed the room with his usual expression of resigned affection, and cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, if we're done planning the wedding, we have hockey to play."

The noise died down, but the energy remained electric.

"I know you've all been dealing with documentary attention over the summer," Coach continued. "Some of it's been positive, and some of it hasn't. None of it matters when you step onto the ice. What matters is that last season, we found something special. This season, we're building on it."

"On three," I called out, standing. "What do we do?"

"REAP THE WIN!"

The sound bounced off the walls. As we filed toward the tunnel, Grimmy fell into step beside me, his upgraded scythe clattering against the doorframe.

"Feeling good about this season, Cap," he said through the skull.

"Yeah. Me too."

In the tunnel, I found myself standing next to Thatcher. Around us, conversations flowed—Bricks explaining something about save percentage to the new goalie, and Knox still lecturing Flint about equipment choices..

Thatcher grabbed my free hand. The arena doors opened, and we stepped onto the ice together. Not as mentor and student, or as captain and problem player, but as partners in every sense that mattered. The documentary cameras were gone, but the love we'd found remained.

The ice stretched ahead of us, clean and full of possibility. Whatever came next, we'd face it like we'd learned to face everything: together, honestly, and without apologizing.