Page 24 of Cold Comeback
My "minimal eye contact" rule was dead on arrival.
He looked away first, settling into his stall without his usual morning greeting. Smart. Professional. Everything we should be.
I focused on my tape job with laser intensity, wrapping each strip with mathematical precision. He had his own systems. His own need for control.
It was a new perspective on Thatcher. I'd been telling myself he was chaos incarnate, the thing that would destroy my ordered world. But watching him now—the methodical gear arrangement and precise movements—I realized he wasn't chaotic.
He was like me. Someone who learned that if you controlled the small things, you could survive the big things you couldn't control.
The problem was, I couldn't stop looking. Every time he moved, I had to check what it was. When he bent to adjust his shin guards, I stared at the curve of his lower back. When he stretched his shoulders, my mouth went dry.
Linc walked in, humming something that vaguely resembled music. He looked at me, then at Thatcher, then back at me.
He was reading the play before it developed.
"Morning, sunshine," he said to Thatcher, then louder: "Cap, you sleep okay? You look like you wrestled a bear."
"Slept fine." The lie was clipped and sounded professional.
Pluto appeared with a mangled breakfast sandwich gripped in his paw. "Morning, everyone. Ready to—" He stopped. "Okay, what's with the arctic tundra vibe in here?"
"Nothing." Thatcher's voice was carefully neutral. "Focused."
Practice was a train wreck disguised as routine.
On the ice, I tried to anticipate plays that hadn't developed yet, predicting where Thatcher would be three seconds before he moved. My captain's instincts turned against me—the same ice sense that made me good at my job was now tracking every shift of his weight and every turn of his head.
When Coach inevitably put us together for a two-on-one, I hit him harder than necessary. Not to hurt him. I'd never hurt him, but I needed the contact—a reminder that our contact was about hockey, not whatever had happened in his bedroom.
He came up grinning, checking me right back with a hip that sent electricity up my spine. "That's all you got, Cap?"
When I heard the challenge in his voice, I wanted to pin him against the boards and show him what I had. Instead, I skated to the back of the line and pretended I was still calm.
"Get a room, not the corner," Knox shouted during a water break, and the team laughed.
"Focus," I barked, louder than necessary. It only made everyone laugh harder.
During a passing drill, Pluto stage-whispered about "Captain's mood swings" while Linc commented on me being "twitchier than a rookie in his first NHL game."
I snapped at both of them, then immediately felt like an ass. They looked up to me. They counted on me to be steady and reliable—a foundation they could build on.
One big mistake with Thatcher Drake, and I was already failing at key elements of my job.
After practice, I aggressively organized my stall, folding towels with military precision and arranging gear like I was preparing for inspection. The locker room emptied around me until only Knox remained, sitting on the bench across from me and watching me refold the same towel three times.
He wasn't known for his emotional intelligence. His idea of counseling usually involved beer and creative profanity. So, when he cleared his throat and asked, "Want to talk about it?" I nearly dropped my helmet.
"Nothing to talk about." I shoved the towel into my bag. "Just tired."
Knox nodded slowly. "Junior year in Saskatoon, I fell for my center."
It was a verbal blindside check. I froze, towel half-stuffed in my gear bag. Knox didn't talk about personal stuff. He complained about line combinations and the price of beer. He didn't—
"Two years on the same line. Glued at the hip. Rinks, bars, buses. All of it." He rubbed a hand over his jaw, staring at the floor. "One night after a win, too many beers, and… yeah. We crossed the line."
I listened, and my carefully maintained composure cracked slightly.
"I lost my shit," he went on. "Convinced myself it'd wreck the team, us, everything. So, I iced him out. Switched lines. Pretended it never happened." He let out a bitter laugh. "Torched the best thing I had going."
