Page 9 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

Chapter seven

Thatcher

I walked into Dot's Place expecting the usual chaos of twenty hockey players descending on a small-town breakfast diner.

I thought, Dad would call this settling, meeting up with my peers in some backwater diner instead of a proper restaurant.

What I didn't expect was the intricate seating politics that would make navigating a Southern church potluck look easy.

The place was exactly what you'd find in any hockey town—vinyl booths with cracks held together by duct tape and coffee strong enough to wake the dead. The morning crowd of construction workers and early commuters had already cleared out, leaving the diner to us.

There was an order to it all that I was only beginning to understand.

Rookies clustered near the door, close enough to make a quick escape if they said something stupid.

They spoke in hushed tones and ordered off the cheap side of the menu.

The veterans claimed the back booths like kings holding court, spreading out with newspapers and coffee refills that never stopped coming.

Leadership—Gideon, the assistant captains, and a few of the older guys—had taken up residence at the counter, where they could see the whole room and maintain casual authority over the proceedings.

"Over here, Drake!" Linc waved me toward a middle booth where he and Pluto had saved me a seat—perfect neutral territory. I wasn't presumptuous enough to join the leadership table, but neither was I relegated to rookie row.

I slid in next to Pluto, who was methodically working through a stack of pancakes that could have fed a small village.

"Morning, sunshine," Linc said, pushing a coffee mug toward me. "Sleep okay in your cursed bedroom?"

"Still breathing, so I'm calling it a win."

The door chimed, and Jet walked in wearing khakis, a polo shirt, and the Grim Reaper skull head from his mascot costume. He moved through the diner, treating it as entirely usual, nodding to teammates as he passed.

I stared. "Is he—?"

"Oh, yeah." Pluto paused mid-pour to create what appeared to be a syrup peace sign on his pancakes.

"Jet never takes the head off in public.

Says it helps him stay in character. Personally, I think he likes the excuse not to make small talk with strangers, but who am I to judge a man's coping mechanisms? "

Jet slid onto a counter stool next to Knox. The waitress—a middle-aged woman with graying hair and eyes that had seen everything—barely glanced at him.

"The usual, hon?" she asked, refilling his coffee mug.

"Thanks, Dolores," came the muffled reply from inside the skull. "Extra bacon today."

Nobody batted an eye. It was the surreal becoming routine in minor league hockey.

I looked around the room with new eyes. Knox was deep into a rant about his ex-wife trying to get more alimony. A couple of veterans discussed refinancing their mortgages. Near the door, Bricks and another rookie nervously joked about making rent.

These weren't merely hockey players killing time between practices. They were men who'd chosen to build lives around the game, even when the game couldn't promise them fame or fortune.

Is that settling, or is it commitment?

When Coach walked in, the entire energy of the diner shifted. Conversations didn't stop, but they dropped in volume. Postures straightened slightly.

Gideon sat with the coaching staff, but I caught him glancing at our table multiple times. Each time our eyes met, he looked away quickly.

The food was better than expected—eggs cooked properly, bacon that didn't taste like cardboard, and coffee that tasted like more than brown water. I understood why breakfast at Dot's was a team tradition.

Linc cut into an omelet with surgical precision. "So, verdict on Richmond? Decent digs, or do I gotta chirp somebody on your behalf?"

"Still adjusting," I admitted. "Different from what I expected."

"Different how?" Pluto asked around a mouthful of pancake. "Like, bad different or weird-but-good different?"

I thought about it while I stirred my coffee. "More real, I guess. Juniors, the show—it's all polished, managed, PR-perfect. Here? Feels like actual life."

"That's because it is," Knox growled from the counter, not bothering to turn around. "Half these idiots got kids asking for new shoes and wives asking why the check's late. Hockey don't pay the mortgage down here, but it sure as hell beats selling insurance."

My phone buzzed against my leg. I pulled it out and saw a name that made my stomach drop: "Dad - Work Only."

I stared at the screen until it stopped ringing, then immediately started buzzing again.

Linc frowned. "You gonna answer that?"

"Probably should." I stood and headed for the door. "Be right back."

The parking lot was quiet except for the distant hum of highway traffic. I answered on the fourth ring.

"Hello, Dad."

"Thatcher." He carefully controlled his voice, all business tones. "How are you settling into the situation in Richmond?"

The situation. Not my new team or a new opportunity—the situation.

"It's going well. Good guys, good coaching staff."

"I see." A loaded pause. "And this is temporary, correct? Until you can get back to serious hockey?"

"This is serious hockey, Dad."

"You know what I mean. Top of AHL ranks. NHL consideration. Real opportunity."

I leaned against my rental car and watched Jet through the diner window, still wearing his skull head while eating bacon. "This is a real opportunity."

"Thatcher." His tone sharpened slightly. "I understand you needed time to regroup after that fiasco, but you cannot let this setback define your career. Keep your head down, avoid any more embarrassments, and I can still put you in touch with people who matter."

There it was—the real intent underneath the measured words.

"I'm not planning any incidents."

"Good. This family has a reputation to maintain. Your actions don't only reflect on you."

I closed my eyes. "Dad, are you even going to ask if I'm happy?"

A long pause. "Happiness is for people who've earned it. You haven't. Not yet. Focus on salvaging your career."

"What if I told you my career is fine? Here?"

"Then I'd say you're settling for less than your potential."

The conversation continued for another five minutes, but the script didn't change. Dad talked about "fixing this" and "getting back on track" while I tried to explain that maybe the track I'd been on wasn't the right one.

We ended the call with mutual frustration and nothing resolved.

I stood in the parking lot afterward, watching teammates drive away in their beat-up cars and modest trucks—vehicles they owned, not rented like mine. Dad would see those dented bumpers and expired inspection stickers as proof they'd settled for less.

Through the diner window, I saw the stragglers finishing their coffee. Knox was still gesturing with his fork, probably solving the world's problems one complaint at a time. Pluto had moved on to engineering an architectural marvel with his leftover toast.

Normal guys living ordinary lives, finding joy in small things.

***

The drive to the rink was different from usual.

I often spent those twenty minutes replaying on-ice blunders and hammering myself with what needed fixing.

This time, I caught myself watching the city—sunlight cutting across the buildings, a retriever yanking his walker to a hydrant.

It was Richmond dragging itself out of bed and coming to life.

Dad's version of Richmond was a place I should escape. Mine was becoming somewhere I could stay for a while.

Back on the ice for morning practice, Gideon was all business and mixed signals wrapped in captain authority.

"Alright, everyone, systems work," Coach barked. "Sawyer, take the first group through neutral zone regroups."

Gideon skated over to center ice, and somehow, I ended up as his demonstration partner.

"Drake, you're with me for this one—still learning our systems."

It was unnecessary mentoring. I'd run the drills hundreds of times, but didn't complain about the extra attention.

We lined up for the first rep. Gideon fed me a perfect pass, and I carried it through the neutral zone, regrouped behind our net, and hit him with a crisp outlet pass—textbook execution.

"Good." He skated back to the line. "Make sure you keep your head up through the middle. Trust your teammates."

The advice was sound, but he stood closer than necessary to deliver it.

On the next drill—a simple two-on-one rush—he again assigned himself as my partner.

"Focus on your own game," he told me as we waited our turn. "Don't worry about what anyone else is doing."

Next, he executed the most textbook-perfect give-and-go I'd seen all season, glancing over to ensure I was watching when he buried the return pass top shelf.

Line changes were where the contradictions became most apparent. As captain, he had plenty of reasons to communicate with every player during transitions. When it came to me, his hand lingered on my shoulder, and he delivered his instructions close enough to my ear that his breath tickled my neck.

The breakthrough moment came during a penalty kill drill. Coach set up a four-on-three scenario, and I found myself killing penalties with the top unit—recognition that I belonged with the core guys.

The opposition had perfectly set up their power play—puck movement, good spacing, and constant pressure. I read the seam pass before it developed, stepped into the lane, and intercepted it cleanly—one touch to settle, another to clear the zone with authority.

Sticks tapped against the glass. Knox muttered, "Kid's got it figured out" loud enough for everyone to hear. Even Coach nodded approvingly.

I was watching for Gideon's reaction. A subtle nod, quick, but unmistakable. Recognition. Acceptance.

It meant everything.

An equipment malfunction happened during a hitting drill.