Page 5 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter four

Gideon

I t wouldn't happen again.

I'd told myself that approximately forty-seven times since yesterday's practice, and the number kept climbing.

The number forty-seven felt conservative. Every routine task triggered the same spiral - shower, workout, getting dressed.

Then, I walked into Angelo's and saw Thatcher Drake in dark jeans and a fitted button-down that made his shoulders look like a sculptor carved them from marble. Static flooded my brain.

The restaurant was exactly what I'd feared—cramped, intimate, loud. Exposed brick walls bounced sound around like a pinball machine. Mason jar light fixtures cast everything in warm amber.

It was a place where you could hear the couple three tables over arguing about their mortgage. The air was thick with garlic, basil, and the competing colognes of twenty hockey players trying to cover sweat.

"Sawyer!" Wren appeared at my elbow like a well-dressed vulture, clipboard in one hand, phone in the other. "You're at table two with Drake, Linc, Pluto, and Janet from the Observer . Smile pretty. And for God's sake, don't let Knox order the lobster—we're not made of money."

Table two was a cramped circle in the dead center of the restaurant where every conversation would echo off the walls and straight into recording devices. Of course.

I took my assigned seat directly across from Thatcher. He looked up from studying the wine list, trying to convince us he understood the difference between a Chianti and a Sangiovese.

His smile could melt steel. "Evening, Cap."

"Drake."

The reporter—Janet Reeves, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes, introduced herself while simultaneously flagging down a server. "So exciting to meet the team! I'm particularly interested in bonding and chemistry. What makes you all click?"

"Good leadership." The words rolled out as I cut into a loaf of focaccia bread. It was still warm, steam rising from the crust, olive oil pooling in the little dish beside it.

"Great stick work," Thatcher added, tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it in the oil.

Linc snorted into his water glass. It was one of those Mason jars with a handle that made everyone look like they were drinking moonshine. "That's one way to put it."

At the table behind us, Knox was already deep into a rant about the menu prices. "Eighteen dollars for chicken parm? What is this, Manhattan?"

"Thatcher's got excellent technique," Pluto added. "Really knows how to handle his equipment."

I reached for my water and took a long drink, trying not to look at Thatcher's mouth. He looked directly at Janet. "It's all about finding the right grip, you know? Some guys rush it, but I like to take my time. Make sure everything's positioned just right."

The waiter appeared—a kid who couldn't be older than twenty—and started rattling off specials while Janet scribbled notes like she was scripting a hockey documentary.

"Fascinating, and Captain Sawyer, how do you assess a player's technique?"

"Practice." I stabbed at my salad with unnecessary force. The greens were fresh, probably from some local farm Wren had specifically chosen for its media appeal. "Repetition. Discipline."

Two tables over, our rookie goalie had convinced the local TV reporter to let him demonstrate proper glove positioning using her microphone. She was giggling.

"Discipline's important," Thatcher agreed, eyes locked on mine while he twirled pasta around his fork. "Though sometimes you need to improvise. Work with what feels natural."

The team dinner was hitting peak chaos. Servers wove between tables, balancing plates of steaming lasagna and chicken marsala. The kitchen door swung open every thirty seconds, releasing clouds of garlic-scented steam.

At the bar, three of our defensemen engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate about whether pineapple belonged on pizza, their voices carrying over the general din.

"Speaking of natural talent," Janet continued, pausing to photograph her pasta dish, "I understand you two have been working closely together since Thatcher joined the team?"

Working closely. Christ.

"Drake's been learning our systems." I didn't look up and forced myself to cut my chicken into even pieces. It was good—tender, seasoned with rosemary.

"Gideon's been very hands-on," Thatcher added. I didn't have to look up. I heard the grin in his voice. "Really gets into the details. Like yesterday, he showed me this technique—"

I kicked his shin under the table.

"—for positioning during drills," he finished smoothly, not even blinking. "Very thorough."

"Oh, speaking of thorough," Pluto interrupted, suddenly animated. "You guys have to hear about what happened with Grimmy today."

Linc groaned. "Please, no."

"No, this is good." Pluto gestured with a forkful of ravioli. "So Grimmy's doing this promotional thing at the elementary school, right? Full costume, plastic hockey stick scythe, the works. And one of the kids asks him why the Grim Reaper plays hockey instead of, you know, reaping souls."

Janet turned her recorder toward Pluto, sensing comedy gold.

"And Grimmy—who is supposed to be in character, remember—tries to explain that hockey is aggressive soul-collecting, but with more rules. Then this eight-year-old girl raises her hand and asks if that means the members of the opposing team are all dead."

The waiter returned to refill wine glasses, clearly eavesdropping. He pursed his lips, trying not to laugh.

"So now Grimmy's in full panic mode because he's accidentally convinced twenty second-graders that hockey is some kind of supernatural death sport.

The teacher's losing it, the kids are crying, and Grimmy's standing there in this giant skull mask trying to explain ice time to a bunch of eight-year-olds. "

I laughed despite everything. Across the table, Thatcher grinned, and for a moment, the dinner was almost normal.

"The best part," Pluto continued, "is that the school called the front office to complain, and Wren had to drive over there to do damage control.

She shows up in her power suit and heels, walks into this classroom full of traumatized children, and very seriously explains that hockey is competitive ice dancing with more contact. '"

"Did it work?" Janet asked.

"The kids loved it. Now, they all want to learn competitive ice dancing. The teacher asked if we offer lessons."

Wren chose that moment to materialize beside our table like someone summoned her by name. "How's everything going over here? Janet, getting good material?"

"Wonderful," Janet assured her. "The team has such great chemistry."

"They certainly do." Wren focused on me. "Gideon, why don't you say a few words? Team captain's perspective on the upcoming season?"

My blood turned to ice water. Public speaking was bad enough under usual circumstances. Public speaking while Thatcher sat three feet away, looking like sin in a button-down shirt, was psychological torture.

"I don't think—"

"Come on, Cap," Linc encouraged. "Speech! Speech!"

The other tables picked up the chant. Knox started banging his knife against his wine glass like he was at a wedding. The entire restaurant stared at me expectantly.

I stood, chair scraping against the floor. "Thank you," I started. "We're, uh. We're excited about the season."

Brilliant. Truly captivating oratory.

"The Reapers have always been about more than just hockey." I tried to find my footing. "We're about community. About working together toward something bigger than ourselves."

Safe lines. Boring lines. Lines I'd recited a hundred times before.

I messed up glancing at Thatcher. He wasn't smiling. He was watching me like I was the only person in the room.

"We've got new talent this year." My throat went dry. "Players who bring fresh energy. New perspectives. People who—"

My voice cracked. Fuck.

"—people who push us to be better."

Thatcher's lips parted slightly, enough to make me lose the thread entirely.

"And, uh…" My mind went blank. My wine glass was in my hand before I knew it. I drained half of it in one swallow. "We're… we're going to give it everything we've got. Thank you."

Applause filled the restaurant. I sat down quickly, face burning.

"Beautiful." Wren smiled but narrowed her eyes when she looked at me.

"Very heartfelt," Janet agreed. "That new talent you mentioned—anyone in particular?"

Before I could panic, the waiter appeared with dessert menus, temporarily derailing the conversation. The kid looked frazzled, probably overwhelmed by a restaurant full of hockey players who ordered like they were carb-loading for the Olympics.

"The tiramisu's really good," he offered weakly.

"I'll bet it is." Thatcher somehow made his comment sound suggestive.

Janet was back to her notes. "So tell me about team bonding. Do you spend much time together off the ice?"

"Some of us do," Linc said. "Movie nights, that kind of thing."

Pluto picked up the thread. "Thatcher and I were just talking about getting together more. We'll work on our connection."

"Connection's crucial," Thatcher agreed, running his finger around the rim of his wine glass. "You need to know your teammate's rhythm. How they move. What they respond to."

The server delivered our desserts, and I shoved a spoonful of gelato into my mouth to avoid saying something I'd regret. It was good—rich vanilla with real vanilla beans—but it might as well have been cardboard.

"And Captain, how do you foster that kind of... intimacy among the team?"

I choked. Linc pounded my back while I coughed into my napkin, gelato going down the wrong pipe.

"Team building," I croaked once I could speak again. "Trust exercises."

"Gideon's big on trust." Thatcher loaded his voice with fake innocence. "Likes to test your limits. See how much pressure you can handle before you break."

Janet ate it up, scribbling furiously while navigating a monster slice of chocolate cake. "That sounds intense."

"Oh, it is. Sometimes you're unsure if you can take it, but Gideon always knows exactly how to push. Finds that sweet spot where you're right on the edge."

My fork clattered against my bowl loud enough that the conversation at the next table paused.

"The edge of what?" Janet asked.

Thatcher spoke quickly. "Performance. Peak performance. Gideon excels at reading when someone's about to... peak."

Linc made a strangled noise. Pluto was suddenly very interested in the restaurant's art collection—local landscapes.

In the background, Knox was telling anyone who'd listen about his fantasy football team while our goalie demonstrated stick-handling techniques with a breadstick. The noise level climbed as wine glasses emptied and inhibitions lowered.

Thatcher cut into his dessert. "This tiramisu's incredible. It's so much better when someone else handles the prep work, you know? Gets it nice and ready for you."

Janet nodded. "Do you cook much yourself?"

"I'm better with my hands than most people think." He licked his spoon clean. "Good with tools. Really know how to work a shaft."

Janet tilted her head to the side while I looked down and shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

"Pasta shaft," Thatcher clarified helpfully. "The long noodles. Though I'm also pretty skilled with shorter, thicker varieties, too."

"Penne," Pluto added weakly.

"Exactly. It's all about technique. Finding the right angle. Applying just enough pressure."

I stood abruptly. "Excuse me."

The bathroom was a single-stall refuge at the back of the restaurant, past the kitchen, where I heard line cooks shouting in three different languages.

I locked the door, braced my hands against the sink, and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

Behind me were framed fake vintage advertisements for Coca-Cola and Lucky Strike cigarettes.

My face was flushed, my breathing uneven.

Professional boundaries, I told myself. He's doing this on purpose. Don't let him get to you.

Every word out of his mouth reminded me of yesterday. The taste of his skin. How he'd gasped my name. How perfectly he'd fit against me when I'd lost my goddamn mind and—

A knock interrupted my spiral. "Occupied," I called.

"It's me."

Of course it was.

I unlocked the door, and Thatcher slipped inside, locking it behind him. The bathroom was barely big enough for one person, let alone two full-grown athletes.

"What the hell are you doing?" I hissed.

"Checking on you." His eyes were dark, pupils dilated in the dim lighting. "You seemed tense."

"Stop."

"Stop what?" He stepped closer. I smelled the wine on his breath, mixed with a faint hint of cologne. "I'm only being friendly. Answering questions about our team dynamic."

"You—you know exactly what you're doing."

"Do I?" He was close. Close enough to see the red mark on his neck that his collar didn't quite hide. The one I'd put there. "What am I doing, Gideon?"

"Testing me."

"And how am I doing?"

My self-control, which I'd built my entire identity around, hung by a thread. "Thatcher—"

He spoke softly. "You can't stop thinking about it either. Yesterday. How it felt."

"It—we—screwed up."

"We did?" He reached up, fingers hovering just shy of touching my chest. "Every time you look at me, and every time our hands brush during practice, you look like you want to screw up again."

He was right. God help me, he was absolutely right.

"We should get back." I took a deep breath and didn't move.

Neither did he. "In a minute."

"This can't happen." My voice sounded weak.

"No," he agreed. "It can't."

He leaned in, and I didn't step back.

"Gideon," he whispered, and how he said my name nearly broke me.

Someone rattled the door handle. "Hello? Is someone in there?"

We sprang apart. It was a miracle of timing. I unlocked the door and brushed past whoever was waiting—one of the servers, looking harried.

When I returned to the table, Thatcher was already there chatting with Janet about his favorite type of tape for stick handling while finishing his tiramisu, as if nothing had happened. He was entirely composed.

I was coming apart at the seams.

"Everything okay?" Janet asked as I sat down, gesturing to my untouched gelato that had melted into vanilla soup.

"Fine," I lied.

And this was only dinner. It was going to be a very long season.