Page 26 of Cold Comeback
Thatcher told stories about junior hockey in Canada. He had a coach who made them practice in a barn so cold their water bottles froze. I talked about leadership philosophy and what it meant to wear the C, carrying nineteen other guys' dreams.
He had a way of listening that made me want to keep talking. He nodded like he understood when I mentioned the pressure of always being "on" as captain.
"Ever get tired of it?" he asked. "Being the steady one all the time?"
"Someone has to be."
"That's not an answer."
His hand nearly knocked over his beer when he gestured, describing some ridiculous penalty he'd taken in the OHL. I caught it without thinking. Our fingers lingered on the glass.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
The conversation shifted like a well-executed line change—smooth, natural, no awkward gaps. He found the seams in my defenses, not forcing plays but waiting for me to give him an opening. When I mentioned the isolation of leadership, he didn't push; he merely settled into the space I'd created and waited for the next pass.—from hockey to growing up, from pressure to what we did when no one was watching.
When he mentioned learning to cook from his grandmother, I told him about the farm where I'd learned to skate on a frozen pond.
He traced patterns in the condensation on his glass. "Funny thing—half the time the shit we're scared of losing is the only stuff that actually makes us feel alive."
It was an observation that cut right to the bone.
I didn't have an answer for him.
Walking to our cars afterward, our easy conversation faded into something weightier. The parking lot stretched between the warm environment of the restaurant and the cold truth of going home alone.
Under the streetlight, Thatcher looked exactly like he had in his bedroom—beautiful, dangerous, impossible to resist.
We stood in a circle of artificial light, like it was a stage, performing the final scene of something we both knew couldn't have a second act.
He stopped and turned to face me. "Gideon."
He stepped closer. I should have stepped back. Should have said goodnight. Should have gotten in my car and driven home.
Instead, I stood my ground and let him close the distance.
"This is a bad idea."
"Terrible idea," he agreed, close enough to smell a hint of cologne.
The world around us faded with Thatcher close enough to kiss.
Then, he stepped back on his own. His smile was soft and understanding. "I should get home. Early practice tomorrow."
Thatcher was the one who was smart enough to walk away when I couldn't.
"Yeah," I managed. "Early practice."
He headed toward his car, then paused with his hand on the door handle. "Thanks for dinner, Cap. For the conversation, too."
I watched him drive away before trusting my legs to carry me to my car.
When I returned home, I sat in the driveway for twenty minutes, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.
I could still smell his cologne and hear his laugh. Inside my empty apartment in the team house, standing alone with the lights off, I finally admitted what I'd been fighting all week.
Thatcher looked at me like he saw a leader, someone worth following. What would happen when he realized I was just as lost as everyone else? That being captain didn't make me brave—it only made me better at hiding?
I wasn't avoiding him. I was orbiting him like a satellite locked in gravitational pull, drawn by forces I couldn't fight and didn't want to escape. All my rules and boundaries were elaborate ways of staying close while pretending I wasn't.
