Page 3 of Cold Comeback
I glanced at a guy sitting silently two stalls down, head bent over his skates.
"And that's Knox."
He didn't look up, didn't join in the chirps.
Linc shoved a water bottle at me with forearms inked in half-faded dragons. "Welcome to the Bone Yard."
"The what?"
"Our group chat. You'll get an invite if you survive Wren."
As if summoned, she poked her head back in. "Thatcher. Two minutes."
I followed her to the small press room. A local camera guy, a blogger with a phone, and a teenager who wanted a selfie "for my cousin who cries about you" waited like I was the new baby animal at the zoo.
I pasted on a smile and tried to find the version of me who used to do this in his sleep.
The blogger cleared his throat. "Thatcher, what does a comeback mean to you?"
"Earning a spot every day," I said. The correct answer was always a quote you could embroider on a pillow. "Being a good teammate. Helping the Reapers win."
"And the video?" the camera guy asked, sympathetic and nosy in equal measure.
I inhaled. "I made a mistake. I learned. I'm here to work."
"Can you sing something for us?" the teenager blurted. "Sorry. That was mean."
"It was, but no. Unless it's someone's birthday."
A ghost of a smile crossed Wren's face. "That's all. Not bad," she added under her breath. "You didn't combust."
"High bar. What now?"
"Now you meet your helmet." She left me in the equipment room with a man who nearly broke my neck as he measured my head. Ten minutes later, I was back in the locker room, lacing skates, trying not to watch Gideon watch me.
He had the aura of the best captains. Guys orbited him without thinking. A tape job here, a nod there, and a look that sent a rookie back to grab the right stick without a word. He didn't perform leadership. He just did it.
"Skate, second group!" Coach yelled. "Sawyer, you anchor."
Gideon stood. Our eyes met. His jaw tightened, then relaxed. He looked away.
On the ice, my legs remembered what the rest of me kept forgetting: I knew how to skate. Cold air in my throat. Edges biting. The first push always felt like coming up for air.
We ran through warm-up drills. Pass and follow, quick drop passes at the blue line, and breakouts. The Reapers weren't lacking in talent. They were undisciplined. Half the rushes died because someone tried to be cute. Half the zone exits turned into mini disasters. Too familiar.
"Drake!" Coach barked. "You're not cute. Move the puck."
"Copy." I flipped a pass to Linc and cut toward open ice.
Gideon slotted in opposite me for a drill and kept it all business. Good stick. Good gap. Clean when he didn't need to be. He knocked me off a puck near the boards and sealed the lane like a door closing.
I chuckled. "Nice."
"Stop admiring your hair and you'll beat me." He didn't smile.
"Rude. Accurate." My comments brought out a grunt that might have been a laugh if you watered it and left it in the sun.
We finished with battle drills. Two-on-two down low, tight space, quick decisions. The puck popped loose behind the net. Instinct kicked in. I stripped it from Pluto, rolled off the post, and tucked a tight backhand short side before the goalie could seal.
