Page 47 of Cold Comeback
Still, logic didn't matter—some part of me believed that wanting Thatcher would prove I didn't deserve to be captain.
My heart?
That was the honest answer, wasn't it? I was protecting myself from deserving something good. From believing I could have what Jordan Mitchell had carved into that puck.
He had loved someone enough to hide a shrine. He'd skipped his last game because watching his person leave was too painful. He'd carvedJ.M. + G.S.into rubber and hidden it behind a baseboard like a prayer.
And what had I done? Run. Again.
The parking lot was empty except for my car and the distant sound of traffic. I pulled out my phone and stared at Thatcher's contact.
I could text him. Apologize for being weird at practice. Explain that I was scared and stupid and wanted him more than I'd wanted anything in years.
Instead, I put the phone away and started the car.
Tomorrow, I decided. It could wait. Tomorrow, I'd figure out how to stop running from the best thing that had happened to me since I'd learned to skate.
Tonight, I was going home to my empty apartment to practice being brave enough to deserve Thatcher Drake.
The drive home was quiet except for the radio playing soft rock and the sound of my own breathing. I thought about Jordan Mitchell's shrine at every red light and how he'd wrapped those memories in an old hockey sock. He'd carved the faded initials with desperate precision.
Some guys only get one chance at this.
Knox was right. I'd built this life to be safe. Unbreakable. But what good was all that structure if the moment I let someone get close, I turned into a ghost in my own story?
I'd erased myself from David's life. Let Jordan vanish without a fight.
With Thatcher, I'd run out of excuses, and he was still here.
Chapter eleven
Thatcher
The Reapers staff transformed the Richmond Community Center's gym into something between a carnival and a classroom, with reading stations scattered throughout. Colorful banners hung from the ceiling proclaiming "REAPERS READ!" A mini hockey rink in one corner used plastic boards and foam pucks. Face-painting stations took up another corner.
I stood in the doorway, taking it all in. It was nothing like the sterile corporate charity events I'd attended in juniors—those carefully orchestrated photo ops where we showed up, faked smiles, signed a few autographs, and bolted before anyone could ask a real question.
This was messier. More real.
The gym buzzed with energy, but when Gideon walked in behind Coach, something about him felt…off. He smiled at the kids, nodded at the staff, and did all the captain things, but his eyes looked darker than usual, like he hadn't slept right. I figured maybe it was just the early start.
"Drake!" Wren appeared at my elbow like a well-dressed tornado, clipboard in hand. "You're on reading station three. Ages seven to ten. Try not to traumatize them."
"Thanks for the encouragement."
"I have contingency plans for everything except Grimmy." She glanced toward the entrance, where he attempted to navigate through the door sideways. His giant skull kept catching on the frame. "He's a wild card even on good days."
Grimmy finally made it inside and immediately crashed into a display table of donated books. The collision sent paperbacks scattering across the floor like confetti. Half the kids scattered in terror; the others rushed forward shrieking with delight.
I dropped to my knees to gather the scattered books. A few brave kids joined me, chattering excitedly about the "scary skeleton man" while I stacked picture books and early readers.
"Is he dead?" a little girl with pigtails asked, pointing at Grimmy, tangled in the table legs.
"Nah, he's just resting. Skeletons get tired, too."
She giggled. "That's silly. Skeletons don't sleep."
"How do you know? Maybe they have skeleton dreams about skeleton ice cream."
