Page 2 of Cold Comeback
"Go haunt a kid's birthday party," Wren muttered.
He clomped away, skull bobbing. Down the hallway—team posters, skate-with-us fliers, motivational vinyl. WE EARN EVERYTHING, except someone had crossed out EARN and Sharpied in STEAL. Accurate.
She gestured as she walked. "Press room. Coach's office. Gym. If you get lost, ask anyone who looks annoyed—they work here." She stopped at a door and fixed me with those eyes again. "We'll do a short media hit before practice. Smile. Be humble. No karaoke."
"I haven't touched a mic since." That was true. "I'm here to play hockey."
"Good, because the captain is very tired."
"Of what?"
"Everything." She pushed the door open.
The locker room smelled like detergent and old sweat—hockey's universal signature scent. Stalls curved around the walls. A REAPERS logo spread across the carpet. Guys looked up as we walked in—half dressed, taping sticks, and one seated upside down on a stretching bench.
Wren's voice was brisk. "Boys, this is Thatcher Drake. He's a Reaper now. Try not to break him before the cameras get here."
"Can we break him after?" a voice asked.
"After practice," Wren said. "Sawyer?"
A man stood at the far end of the room, and my breath did that weird hitch it does when you realize a photograph didn't do someone justice. Gideon Sawyer was taller than I expected, with all lean lines and broad shoulders and powerful pecs. He wore his dark hair cut short, and he had a scar on his chin like a hyphen. His gaze glided over me how a coach examines a whiteboard—assessing, erasing, moving pieces around.
"Drake," he said. No handshake offered. Not rude. Efficient. "You on time?"
"Jet picked me up."
Someone snorted. "Grimmy's chauffeuring now?"
"Budget cuts," I said.
A half-dozen groans. A roll of stick tape sailed by my head and hit a guy folding towels.
"Drake," Coach barked from his office doorway. He was a stocky man with forearms like tree trunks. "Press in ten. Gear after. You skate second group."
"Got it."
Gideon's eyes met mine. "Phone."
"What?"
"Phone," he repeated, holding out his hand.
I blinked. "Do I look like I'm live? What do you think I am, a walking Twitch?"
"Don't care. No phones in the room. Team rule."
"Oh." I dug it out and handed it over. Our fingers brushed. Current climbed up my arm. His eyes flicked to mine—quick, unreadable, gone before I could be sure I hadn't imagined it. Then he tucked the phone into a metal cubby at the end of the row.
"Your stall," he said, nodding toward an open spot between a guy with a sleeve of bad tattoos and a guy with model-quality cheekbones. "Helmet fitting in five. Don't be a problem."
"I'm never a problem."
The bad tattoos guy grinned—dark blond buzz cut, built thick through the shoulders, a body carved for scrums in the corner.. "That so? I'm Linc. That's Pluto."
"Pluto?" I asked.
Cheekbones shrugged, sharp-jawed and lean enough to look like a model who'd gotten lost on the way to a photo shoot. "Long story. Short version: don't let me choose my own pregame snack."
