Page 28 of Cold Comeback
Linc cut into an omelet with surgical precision. "So, verdict on Richmond? Decent digs, or do I gotta chirp somebody on your behalf?"
"Still adjusting," I admitted. "Different from what I expected."
"Different how?" Pluto asked around a mouthful of pancake. "Like, bad different or weird-but-good different?"
I thought about it while I stirred my coffee. "More real, I guess. Juniors, the show—it's all polished, managed, PR-perfect. Here? Feels like actual life."
"That's because it is," Knox growled from the counter, not bothering to turn around. "Half these idiots got kids asking for new shoes and wives asking why the check's late. Hockey don't pay the mortgage down here, but it sure as hell beats selling insurance."
My phone buzzed against my leg. I pulled it out and saw a name that made my stomach drop: "Dad - Work Only."
I stared at the screen until it stopped ringing, then immediately started buzzing again.
Linc frowned. "You gonna answer that?"
"Probably should." I stood and headed for the door. "Be right back."
The parking lot was quiet except for the distant hum of highway traffic. I answered on the fourth ring.
"Hello, Dad."
"Thatcher." He carefully controlled his voice, all business tones. "How are you settling into the situation in Richmond?"
The situation. Not my new team or a new opportunity—the situation.
"It's going well. Good guys, good coaching staff."
"I see." A loaded pause. "And this is temporary, correct? Until you can get back to serious hockey?"
"This is serious hockey, Dad."
"You know what I mean. Top of AHL ranks. NHL consideration. Real opportunity."
I leaned against my rental car and watched Jet through the diner window, still wearing his skull head while eating bacon. "This is a real opportunity."
"Thatcher." His tone sharpened slightly. "I understand you needed time to regroup after that fiasco, but you cannot let this setback define your career. Keep your head down, avoid any more embarrassments, and I can still put you in touch with people who matter."
There it was—the real intent underneath the measured words.
"I'm not planning any incidents."
"Good. This family has a reputation to maintain. Your actions don't only reflect on you."
I closed my eyes. "Dad, are you even going to ask if I'm happy?"
A long pause. "Happiness is for people who've earned it. You haven't. Not yet. Focus on salvaging your career."
"What if I told you my career is fine? Here?"
"Then I'd say you're settling for less than your potential."
The conversation continued for another five minutes, but the script didn't change. Dad talked about "fixing this" and "getting back on track" while I tried to explain that maybe the track I'd been on wasn't the right one.
We ended the call with mutual frustration and nothing resolved.
I stood in the parking lot afterward, watching teammates drive away in their beat-up cars and modest trucks—vehicles they owned, not rented like mine. Dad would see those dented bumpers and expired inspection stickers as proof they'd settled for less.
Through the diner window, I saw the stragglers finishing their coffee. Knox was still gesturing with his fork, probably solving the world's problems one complaint at a time. Pluto had moved on to engineering an architectural marvel with his leftover toast.
