Page 31 of Cold Comeback
"You think the team's gonna cut me?"
"I think you played solid hockey today, and you're obsessing over one bad pass. That's not a player who's getting cut. That's a player who cares too much."
"Is that bad?"
"Depends. Caring's fine—until you lose sleep over facial expressions. Then it's a problem."
He nodded slowly. "How do you turn it off?"
"You don't. You just get better at managing it." I stood. "Come on. See if you can get some sleep before morning."
I was halfway up the stairs when I heard a door creak open above me.
Gideon appeared at the top of the landing in sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, hair sticking up like he'd been tossing in bed. He paused when he saw me, taking in my appearance.
"Everything okay? Heard voices downstairs."
"Bricks. Panic attack." I climbed the remaining steps. "He was spiraling—scared of getting cut."
"He's alright now?"
"Yeah. Fed him, talked him down. He'll be okay."
Gideon nodded, studying my face in the dim hallway light. "You couldn't sleep either?"
"Life on repeat." I tapped my head. "You know how it is."
"Yeah." He was quiet for a moment. "What you did down there matters—more than most people realize."
"Someone did the same for me once," I said.
"Maybe, but you didn't have to. You chose to."
Before I could respond, he squeezed my shoulder—quick, firm contact that conveyed more than words could. His thumb brushed the edge of my collarbone through my t-shirt.
"You're a good man, Thatcher."
He said my name in a quiet, certain voice. Thatcher. The person. I couldn't remember the last time my father had said anything about who I was rather than what I could accomplish.
Gideon opened his mouth like he might say something else, then seemed to think better of it.
"Thanks," I managed.
He nodded once—barely perceptible in the dim light—then stepped back toward his door. "Try to get some sleep."
Chapter eight
Gideon
After our pre-road trip logistics meeting ended, I lingered in the conference room, pretending to review my notes while the coaching staff filed out. The hotel assignment sheet hung on the whiteboard, and Wren's neat handwriting organized twenty guys into ten pairs.
Drake, T. / Lincoln, M.
I stared at Thatcher's name until my eyes burned. Linc was the safe choice—professional, appropriate.
My hand hovered over the eraser.
What are you doing, Gideon?
