Page 6 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter five

Thatcher

T he team house had a front door that stuck, a doorbell that played the first eight bars of "We Are The Champions," and a welcome mat that read SKATE OR DIE in faded block letters.

Standing on the porch with my duffel bag, I realized moving in would either be the best decision I'd made since leaving juniors or the final nail in the coffin of my dignity.

"Welcome to paradise," Linc announced, throwing open the front door with the enthusiasm of a game show host revealing a prize nobody wanted. "Casa de Reaper. Home sweet dysfunctional home."

I stepped inside, duffel bag over my shoulder, and immediately understood why the rent was suspiciously affordable.

It had IKEA-style living room furniture assembled by someone who never read the manual.

A coffee table sat at a drunken angle, propped up by a hockey puck.

The team had decorated the walls with posters, pizza delivery menus, and a dartboard that had seen severe abuse.

I mustered my diplomatic charm. "It has character."

"It has structural damage," Pluto corrected. "But hey, character builds character, right?"

Linc clapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, let's show you to your room. Fair warning—it's cursed."

"Cursed how?"

"Nothing too dramatic." Pluto bit into an overstuffed sandwich, and a slight mayo trail ran out the side of his mouth. "Just that every guy who's lived in that room has gotten traded, suffered a season-ending injury, or fallen in love with someone completely inappropriate."

I paused halfway up the stairs. "Define inappropriate."

"Coach's daughter. Opponent's sister. A sports reporter." Linc counted on his fingers. "Oh, and there was that one guy who fell for a figure skater. Very tragic. Very star-crossed."

"What happened to him?"

"Married her." Pluto wiped his mouth. "Lives in Minnesota now. Sells insurance. Very happy, by all accounts, but completely inappropriate for a hockey player."

"Right." I climbed the rest of the stairs. "Well, I've already been traded and nearly torched my career, so what's left? Bring on the curse."

Pluto and Linc exchanged a look.

"Famous last words," Pluto muttered.

The room was decent at first glance—bigger than I'd expected, with a window that faced the backyard and a bed that looked like it might support my weight without collapsing.

The walls were painted a color that could generously be called "landlord beige," and there was a desk that only wobbled slightly when I tested it.

"Not bad."

Linc looked at me with a straight face. "Just wait until you meet the ghost."

"There's a ghost?"

"His name is Chad. Former tenant. Died of food poisoning from expired protein powder."

I stared at him. "You're messing with me."

"Probably, but just to be safe, don't eat anything that's been in the fridge longer than a week."

"Or anything that glows," Linc added helpfully.

An hour later, the entire team had somehow materialized in my new living space. What had started as "a few guys helping out" turned into a full-scale operation involving pizza, beer, and a disturbing amount of commentary on my personal belongings.

"Dude, how much hair product does one man need?" Knox held up a bottle.

"That's not even the expensive stuff," I said, snatching it back. "Wait until you see my leave-in conditioner."

"Leave-in conditioner?" Our rookie goalie—a kid named Bricks—stared at me with something approaching awe. "Does it really work?"

"Kid, this hair doesn't happen by accident."

Bricks nodded solemnly.

Pluto started unpacking a box. "Can we talk about the fact that Drake owns actual books? Not audiobooks. Not podcasts. Actual physical books with pages."

"Some of us are literate."

"Show off," Linc muttered as he grinned.

The afternoon dissolved into the chaos that happens when you give a bunch of hockey players pizza with minimal supervision. Someone found my speakers and put on a "perfect moving music" playlist that sounded like death metal arguing with elevator jazz.

Knox appointed himself my interior design consultant and kept rearranging my furniture while complaining about my "spatial awareness." Bricks got emotional about the "brotherhood of hockey housing" and tried to start a group hug.

"This is what family feels like," he announced, tears in his eyes.

Knox shrugged as he joined in the hug. "Fuck, kid, save it for the championship speech."

Pluto opened a box and discovered my kitchen supplies.

"Holy shit, Drake can actually cook." He held up my best chef's knife.

"Define cook," I said warily.

"Can you make something that isn't microwaved or delivered?"

"Yes?"

The room was suddenly silent.

Linc spoke in a reverent tone. "Dude, you just became everyone's favorite roommate."

"I haven't even moved in yet."

"Too late. You're stuck with us now."

Gideon had been there all afternoon, quietly helpful and doing his best to fade into the shadows. He'd carried boxes without being asked, fixed the wobbly desk with a few strategic adjustments, and generally made himself useful.

I'd noticed how he kept his distance from me specifically. When I handed him something, he was careful not to let our fingers brush. When we ended up in the same corner of the room, he found a reason to be somewhere else.

It would have been insulting if it weren't so apparent that he was working just as hard to avoid me as I was to get his attention.

As the sun started setting, the team began trickling out. Knox left with dire warnings about the water pressure. Bricks hugged everyone goodbye, including me. Pluto pressed a business card for his favorite pizza place into my hand "for emergencies."

"What constitutes an emergency?"

He lowered his head silently. "It's Tuesday."

One by one, they filtered out until only Linc, Pluto, Gideon, and I stood in my half-unpacked room, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and the debris of a successful moving day.

"We should head out too." Linc glanced at his phone. "Early practice tomorrow."

Pluto clapped a hand on Linc's shoulder. "Yeah, let Drake get settled."

They gathered their stuff and headed for the door, but Gideon lingered, fiddling with the window lock like it was a complex piece of machinery.

"You coming, Cap?" Linc called from the hallway.

"In a minute. Need to check the smoke detector."

Linc and Pluto exchanged a look. "Right. The smoke detector. Very important."

They left with entirely too much smirking.

Then, it was just Gideon and me. Six feet of space, and a hell of a lot of things neither of us was saying.

He was still messing with the window, avoiding eye contact. "Seems secure."

"Riveting."

That got me a quick glance before he pivoted to examining the door frame. "Landlord wanted me to check a few things."

"Such as?"

"The, uh..." He paused, clearly making it up as he went along. "Water heater. Upstairs."

"The water heater's in the basement."

"I meant downstairs."

I sat on the edge of my bed and watched him pretend to inspect my baseboards. "You're bad at this."

"At what?"

"Avoiding me."

His shoulders tensed. "I'm not avoiding you."

"No? Then why have you been treating me like I have a contagious disease all day?"

He straightened. "I haven't."

"Gideon. You handed me a box earlier so carefully I thought it might house a time bomb."

"You're being dramatic."

"Am I?" I stood and closed some of the distance between us. "From where I stand, I think you want to be alone with me."

"I don't want that."

"Then why are you still here, making excuses to stay?"

His jaw was tight, hands clenched at his sides. A battle was raging in his eyes.

"I should go."

I nodded. "Should, but you won't."

"Thatcher—"

"Tell me I'm wrong." I took another step closer. "Tell me you haven't spent much time thinking about what happened in the arena hallway."

"We were wrong."

"We were?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you want to touch me again?"

He didn't answer, but he didn't back away either.

I moved until only inches separated our lips. The heat of his body radiated against mine. "You know what I think, Captain?"

"What?" The word was barely audible, his voice a rasp that sent a shiver up my spine.

"I think you're scared of wanting something you think you shouldn't have." I let my gaze trail down his body, lingering on his hard, muscular pecs, and the narrow cut of his hips.

"I'm not scared." His voice started to break, and his cock visibly hardened in his jeans.

For what felt like eternity, nothing happened. We stood there, breathing each other's air, with the tension building like we were waiting for the puck to drop. Then, something in his expression shifted—his pupils dilated and his lips parted—a decision made, and a line crossed.

When his mouth met mine, it wasn't the crash I expected. It was slow, deliberate, his lips pressing with an intensity that made my knees weak. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, demanding entry, and when I parted them, he groaned.

I slid my hands beneath his shirt, feeling the ridged ab muscles contracting at my touch. His skin was hot, almost feverish. When my fingertips touched the trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband, his hips jerked forward involuntarily.

"This is stupid." While he said it, his hands were already working at the hem of my shirt, calloused fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of my lower back.

"Incredibly stupid," I agreed. I pulled his shirt up slowly, inch by inch, revealing the toned muscle and scattered scars.

I touched a jagged mark near his ribs with my thumb. "How'd you get this one?"

"Misdirected slap shot. Junior year." He gripped my belt, knuckles brushing against my stiff cock as he worked the buckle. "Hurt like hell."

"Poor baby." I bent down to run my tongue along the scar.

He made a sound that landed somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "You're trouble."

"You have no idea."