Page 33 of Cold Comeback
"Thinking." He tossed his duffel onto the other bed. "You always this methodical?"
"I like to keep things organized."
"Right." He watched me fold my dress shirt. "God forbid anything gets wrinkled."
"Mock my systems all you want. They work for me."
"I'm not mocking. It's kind of reassuring."
I looked up. The teasing smile had faded, replaced by something vulnerable. It made it hard for me to breathe correctly.
Not knowing what to do with that expression, I announced, "Team meeting in twenty," and returned to my unpacking.
The visiting locker room smelled like industrial disinfectant and decades of sweat. I spread out my gear. Stick tape. Where was my stick tape?
After checking my bag twice, I scoured the equipment bin. The roll I'd been using all season—the one in my glove during our three-game winning streak—was gone.
Panic fluttered in my chest. Stupid, superstitious panic, but real nonetheless.
Then, I saw it. Thatcher casually wrapped his blade with my tape, the distinctive blue and white striping I'd special-ordered.
I opened my mouth to say something. Closed it.
Let him have it. If it helps him feel steadier... let him have all the luck I've got.
"Did Sawyer just give up Excalibur?" Linc's voice carried across the room.
I shrugged, reaching for a generic roll from the equipment supply. "He probably needs it more than I do."
Thatcher looked up, meeting my eyes.
It wasn't about tape. It was about choosing him over control, superstition, and the careful systems that had kept me safe for years.
The game started ugly. We were flat, tentative, and playing like visitors who didn't belong. The crowd sensed it—minor leaguerink, but major league hostility. Every hit drew cheers, and every missed pass brought jeers.
Then, Thatcher turned everything around.
Second period, neutral zone, puck bouncing loose from a scrum. He materialized like he'd predicted the chaos, scooped it up one-handed, and threaded a no-look pass through traffic that landed on my blade.
I buried it top shelf, short side, before their goalie could blink.
The opposing crowd was silent. Our bench erupted. Coach cracked a smile.
I turned my attention to Thatcher, who was skating backward with his arms raised, grinning from ear to ear. We'd created a moment on the ice bigger than the sum of its parts.
The goal shifted everything. Our bench was electric, guys banging sticks against the boards. The crowd—hostile thirty seconds earlier—hushed. We'd stolen their momentum.
I skated past Thatcher on the way to our end, and he tapped my shin with his stick. "Beauty pass," I said.
"Beauty finish." His eyes were bright and alive.
We controlled the game for three shifts: crisp passes and solid defensive play. Even Knox looked loose out there. Coach nodded approvingly from behind the bench. It was the hockey we were capable of when everything clicked.
For thirty more seconds, everything was perfect.
Then it all went to shit.
Thatcher was cycling behind their net, protecting the puck along the boards, when their defenseman came in late and high. Legal hit, but brutal—caught him with his head down and drove him face-first into the glass.
