Page 14 of Cold Comeback
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.
