Page 44 of Cold Comeback
Fuck.
I rolled out of bed and executed my morning routine with military precision. Coffee: black, two sugars, same mug. Protein shake: vanilla, because everything else reminded me of his eyes. Review practice notes: special teams work and defensive zone coverage.
The shrine we'd found kept flashing through my mind. Jordan Mitchell's carved initials.J.M. + G.S.That careful heart, worn smooth by desperate fingers. The ticket stub with itsheartbreaking confession:Told coach I was injured. Couldn't watch you leave.
Did I have that to fear in my future? Watching Thatcher get traded because I couldn't be brave enough to fight for what we had?
I arrived at the practice facility forty-five minutes early, hoping to avoid the team breakfast ritual at Dot's. They'd be buzzing and gossiping about the night before. The rink was quiet, except for the hum of the ice plant and the distant echo of my skates on concrete.
Peaceful. Controlled. Safe.
At exactly 8:15, Thatcher walked through the locker room door.
He dropped his bag into his stall. When he glanced around the room and found me, his mouth curved into a smile.
"Morning, Cap."
"Drake." I was a little too clipped and professional.
If he noticed my tone, he didn't react. He settled into his usual routine—gear arranged with methodical precision, laces checked. He used the same rabbit-ear knot I'd been teaching rookies since juniors.
I focused on my stick tape with laser intensity, wrapping each strip like my life depended on it. Still, his presence reminded me of how he'd looked in sleep—unguarded, trusting, and beautiful. My hands trembled.
The rest of the team trickled in with their usual random behavior. Linc showed up wearing two different socks and carrying what appeared to be a philosophy textbook tucked under his arm. Pluto burst through the door backwards, juggling his phone, car keys, and a travel mug.
"Sleep well, everyone?" Linc asked as he glanced at Thatcher first and then me.
Thatcher grinned. "Like a baby. Great movie night."
Knox grunted from his stall. "Some of us got more rest than others."
I kept my eyes on my tape job, but I felt the weight of twenty guys paying attention to every micro response from me.
"Cap looked pretty comfortable," Pluto added helpfully, and I wanted to strangle him with his skate laces.
Thatcher deflected expertly. "Everyone was comfortable. That's what quality team bonding does."
Team bonding.Right. That's what we were calling it.
Bricks chose that moment to stumble in. "Did I miss anything important?"
"Nope," three voices said simultaneously.
I looked up to find Thatcher watching me.
"Ready to work, Cap?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
On the ice, the threat of gossip faded away.
We started with basic warm-up drills—nothing complicated—moving the puck and getting our legs under us. The moment Thatcher and I skated side-by-side, something clicked.
I correctly predicted his movements before he made them. When he cut left toward the boards, I was already there to deliver the pass. When I carried the puck up ice, he found a soft spot in coverage without looking.
During a simple two-on-one rush, pure hockey instinct bypassed my overthinking brain. Thatcher drew the defenseman with a subtle shoulder fake. I was already moving before I made a conscious decision. His pass hit my tape,
This is what it feels like to be known by someone.
