Page 29 of Cold Comeback
Normal guys living ordinary lives, finding joy in small things.
***
The drive to the rink was different from usual. I often spent those twenty minutes replaying on-ice blunders and hammering myself with what needed fixing. This time, I caught myself watching the city—sunlight cutting across the buildings, a retriever yanking his walker to a hydrant. It was Richmond dragging itself out of bed and coming to life.
Dad's version of Richmond was a place I should escape. Mine was becoming somewhere I could stay for a while.
Back on the ice for morning practice, Gideon was all business and mixed signals wrapped in captain authority.
"Alright, everyone, systems work," Coach barked. "Sawyer, take the first group through neutral zone regroups."
Gideon skated over to center ice, and somehow, I ended up as his demonstration partner.
"Drake, you're with me for this one—still learning our systems."
It was unnecessary mentoring. I'd run the drills hundreds of times, but didn't complain about the extra attention.
We lined up for the first rep. Gideon fed me a perfect pass, and I carried it through the neutral zone, regrouped behind our net, and hit him with a crisp outlet pass—textbook execution.
"Good." He skated back to the line. "Make sure you keep your head up through the middle. Trust your teammates."
The advice was sound, but he stood closer than necessary to deliver it.
On the next drill—a simple two-on-one rush—he again assigned himself as my partner.
"Focus on your own game," he told me as we waited our turn. "Don't worry about what anyone else is doing."
Next, he executed the most textbook-perfect give-and-go I'd seen all season, glancing over to ensure I was watching when he buried the return pass top shelf.
Line changes were where the contradictions became most apparent. As captain, he had plenty of reasons to communicate with every player during transitions. When it came to me, his hand lingered on my shoulder, and he delivered his instructions close enough to my ear that his breath tickled my neck.
The breakthrough moment came during a penalty kill drill. Coach set up a four-on-three scenario, and I found myself killing penalties with the top unit—recognition that I belonged with the core guys.
The opposition had perfectly set up their power play—puck movement, good spacing, and constant pressure. I read the seam pass before it developed, stepped into the lane, and interceptedit cleanly—one touch to settle, another to clear the zone with authority.
Sticks tapped against the glass. Knox muttered, "Kid's got it figured out" loud enough for everyone to hear. Even Coach nodded approvingly.
I was watching for Gideon's reaction. A subtle nod, quick, but unmistakable. Recognition. Acceptance.
It meant everything.
An equipment malfunction happened during a hitting drill.
I lined up to take a check from Knox—nothing malicious, only good hard contact to simulate game conditions. When I braced for the hit, something gave way across my shoulders.
My shoulder pad strap had snapped. Not only loose, but completely severed. It had probably been wearing down for weeks. The pads shifted dangerously, leaving my shoulders exposed.
"Hold up!" I called, skating to the bench.
Our equipment manager, a grizzled guy named Pete, examined the damage and shook his head. "This is toast. Let me see what I've got in the back."
He returned five minutes later with an apologetic expression. "Nothing that's gonna fit you properly. All the spares are sized for smaller guys."
As I sat on the bench, Gideon appeared.
"What's the problem?"
Pete explained the situation. Without a word, Gideon headed to his stall and pulled out a spare set of pads.
