Page 34 of Cold Comeback
He crumpled.
I was on the move before my brain caught up, charging across the ice. The defenseman peeled off, already skating away, but my body didn't care. I veered toward him, adrenaline roaring.
"You think that was clean?"
He didn't even turn around. Smug bastard.
I lunged a step—and Knox caught me from behind, yanking me back like I was about to throw hands.
"Sawyer!" he barked. "Easy, Cap. Easy."
I twisted in his grip, eyes still locked on the D-man's retreating back.
It wasn't easy to retreat. Not when Thatcher was still down. Not when I couldn't tell if he was moving.
He hadn't looked up.
I'd given him my lucky tape. I let him take the one thing I never gave up.
And he still got wrecked.
The trainers swarmed him. Static filled my ears.
I couldn't move until I saw him blink.
He pushed himself to his hands and knees. The crowd murmured with relief, but he stayed down too long, shaking his head like he was trying to clear fog.
Coach sent him straight to the hospital for concussion protocol. I watched him disappear down the tunnel, and the rest of the game passed in a blur of penalty kills and clock management.
We won 3-1, but the final score was meaningless for me.
In the visiting locker room, Coach fielded questions from local media about Thatcher's condition. I caught his eye as he wrapped up interviews.
"Someone needs to get Drake from the hospital." He jingled his rental car keys.
"I'll go."
Coach paused, studying me. "You sure? Long day already."
"He'll want a familiar face. And I'm not tired." Both true, though not the entire truth.
He tossed me the keys. "Bring him straight back to the hotel. No detours."
The hospital parking lot was nearly empty when I arrived, with sodium lights painting everything a harsh orange. Thatcher emerged from the automatic doors looking smaller than usual, wearing his hospital bracelet, and moving like everything hurt.
"You okay?" I asked as he slid into the passenger seat.
"Been better." He winced as he fastened his seatbelt. "No concussion, thankfully. Only feels like I got hit by a truck instead of a defenseman."
"Cleared to play?"
"Doc says yeah, but wants me taking it easy for a day or two. No hitting drills, apparently."
I pulled out of the parking lot, headlights cutting through suburban darkness. The radio played soft rock at a low volume. The car smelled like rental company disinfectant and Thatcher's lingering hospital soap.
Thatcher spoke quietly. "You were ready to kill that guy."
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. "You didn't move. I thought—"
