Page 1 of Cold Comeback
Chapter one
Thatcher
Iknew I'd hit rock bottom when the Reapers' mascot picked me up from the airport.
Not a driver. Not a staffer. Not even some overworked intern with a clipboard.
Nope. It was a six-foot Grim Reaper with a plastic hockey stick for his scythe and a head that wobbled every time he walked.
"Welcome to Richmond, Drake!" the voice inside the costume boomed, muffled like he was trapped in a coffin. The stick clattered against my duffel bag as he wrestled it off the carousel.
People stared. Phones came out. Somewhere, I was already trending. Again.
"Seriously?" I muttered, jogging after him as he clomped toward the exit. "The team couldn't spring for a car service? I'm one bad TikTok away from the Sin Bin of Shame."
The Reaper tilted his giant skull. "Budget cuts. You're lucky you didn't get the Zamboni guy."
I groaned.This is my life now.Once upon a time, I was hockey's golden boy—a smiley kid with fast hands and a highlight-reel goal on opening night. Now I was a punchline inblack-and-neon-green polyester, lugging my own bag behind a mascot named Grimmy.
Outside, the hot, humid August air slapped me. The costume smelled like plastic and stale popcorn. He led me to a battered team SUV with a REAP THE WIN sticker peeling across the bumper. The stick went into the back seat. He kept the head on to drive.
"Is that… safe?" I asked, pointing at his obstructed vision.
He turned, the skull yawing slowly. "Define safe."
"Cool. Love that for me." I buckled up.
We pulled out into traffic. The skull kept tipping like it wanted to nap against the headrest. Between blinks, I caught the skyline, glass, and sun, then a billboard for the Richmond Reapers: a stylized hooded figure skating through smoke.Minor-league hockey, major-league chaos, the tagline said. Someone in marketing had leaned in.
"Name's Jet," the Reaper said at a light, voice less muffled with the window cracked. "Off days, I sell season tickets. On days like this, I'm living proof karma has a sense of humor."
"Mission accomplished," I said. "I'm Thatcher."
"Everyone knows who you are," he said, not unkindly. "You trended for three days. My nana asked me if all hockey players sing in their underwear."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. The cursed video again. Me, karaoke mic in hand, very little clothing, too much tequila, and a live stream that my agent will never forgive. I'd sung Miley's "Wrecking Ball" like my contract depended on it, then watched it evaporate.
"It was a dare," I said, because that felt better than the truth, which was that I'd been lonely and stupid and needed to feel something that wasn't a backcheck or a brand deal.
Jet snorted. The skull wobbled. "You'll like the guys. Most of them. Try not to flirt with the captain."
"That's a rule?"
"That's a warning."
We rolled into the Reapers' practice facility—square concrete, a stubborn patch of grass out front with a lopsided team sign. Inside, the air switched from swamp to freezer. Fluorescents hummed. Somewhere, a puck pinged off metal.
A woman in tailored black and a lanyard waited by the front desk. Sharp eyes, sharp bob, and sharp clipboard. "Thatcher," she said, offering a hand. "Wren Park. PR. Welcome to the Reapers."
"Pleasure."
"We'll be friends if you like early call times and media training. Do you like early call times and media training?"
I stared at her. "I like… winning?"
"Cute," she said, already turning. "Let's try not to trend for the wrong reason this week."
Jet patted my shoulder with a foam hand. "She means it," he said through the skull. "Wren's the real reaper."
