Page 43 of Cold Comeback
I did my best to sound casual. "No problem. You only missed the part where Jack freezes to death in the maze."
"Spoilers," Knox complained.
"It's from 1980," Linc pointed out.
"Some of us have lives that don't revolve around classic cinema," Knox shot back.
While the guys submerged themselves in playful bickering, Gideon caught my eye. His expression was vulnerable, like he was waiting for me to make it weird or awkward.
I didn't.
"Thanks for the radiator help, even if we didn't actually fix anything."
"We'll figure it out tomorrow."
"Yeah. We will."
The conversation was perfectly normal and professional.
The guys headed to bed one by one, leaving Gideon and me in the living room with the remnants of movie night.
"About the hotel," Gideon said quietly.
My pulse jumped. "What about it?"
"I won't try to take it back."
All evening—hell, all week—I'd been bracing for him to decide the road trip was a mistake.
"Good," I said. "Because I'm not letting you."
He smiled and rubbed his chin. "The guy who carved that puck. What he felt?"
"Yeah?"
"He wasn't wrong."
Before I could parse all the implications of that statement and respond, he stood.
"Try to get some sleep, even if the heat's still broken," Gideon said. "Early practice tomorrow."
I watched him head upstairs as my heart hammered against my ribs. Only when I heard his door close did I allow myself to fully process what had just happened.
Gideon Sawyer, Mr. Perfect Control, had fallen asleep on my shoulder in front of our entire team. He'd helped me discover Jordan Mitchell's hidden shrine and admitted that the guy who carved those initials "wasn't wrong." He'd looked me in the eye and said he wasn't taking back what happened in that hotel room.
Back in my room, I rewrapped the hockey memorabilia in the old sock and slid the bundle into my nightstand drawer. The puck's carved heart caught the lamplight before disappearing into darkness.
Tomorrow we'd figure the heat out. Tonight, I listened to the radiator wheeze and thought about courage—the kind it took to carve your feelings into something permanent, and the kind it took to trust someone enough to fall asleep in their arms.
Chapter ten
Gideon
Iwoke up in my own bed at 5:38 AM, normal except for the phantom warmth still pressed against my right shoulder.
My body remembered everything my brain registered as tactical errors—the weight of Thatcher's head against me and how his breathing had slowed until it matched mine. So many years of careful boundaries, and I'd let myself fall asleep in front of nineteen teammates like some rookie who couldn't manage his own emotional discipline.
I was the captain who kept everyone else's messes in line, and I couldn't control my own need to feel safe for ten minutes.
