Page 49 of Cold Comeback
"What if we just lick it a little?" one kid asked.
"No licking either. If you do that, you'll turn into a paint monster."
They giggled and settled into a surprisingly orderly line. I turned to Bricks, lowering my voice.
"You take the next kid in line. I'll keep the others entertained with stories about paint monsters and rainbow dragons. Simpledesigns only—dots, stripes, basic shapes. All they want is to feel special."
"What if I mess it up?"
"Then some kid has a messy face, and you try again. They aren't art critics. They're excited to have someone paying attention to them."
For the next hour, we worked as a team. Bricks painted careful flowers and hockey sticks on small faces while I spun elaborate tales about the magical properties of face paint. His hands steadied as he found his rhythm, and by the end, kids were specifically requesting "the nice hockey player" to paint their designs.
During a quiet moment, while a little girl decided between a butterfly and a star, Bricks spoke quietly.
"I keep thinking I'm going to disappoint them. Like they'll figure out I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Bricks, you've spent two hours making kids feel like superheroes. You think that's disappointing them?"
"But I almost lost it—"
"Almost doesn't count. You asked for help when you needed it. That's not failure, that's smart." I nudged his shoulder. "At least half of these kids will go home and tell their parents about the cool hockey player who painted their face. You think they will mention the part where you felt nervous?"
He smiled for the first time all day. "Probably not."
"Definitely not."
As the event wound down and parents began collecting their paint-splattered, sugar-charged children, I helped with cleanup. Most of the team had already left, but a core group remained to handle the heavy lifting.
"Supply run," Wren announced, consulting her clipboard. "We need to get the equipment back to the storage room. Thatcher, Gideon—can you two handle the hockey gear?"
Adrenaline shot through me. We'd barely spoken since the night he'd fallen asleep on my shoulder, maintaining careful professional distance that fooled no one. Now, Wren was sending us into a small, enclosed space together.
"Sure," I said, with a smile.
The storage room was as cramped as I'd expected. It had barely enough space for two people to move around the shelves of sports equipment and cleaning supplies. A single overhead bulb cast everything in dim, golden light, making the confined space feel even more intimate.
Gideon was all business. "Sticks can go on the top shelf." He reached up to slide the plastic hockey sticks into place, his shirt riding up slightly to expose a strip of skin above his waistband.
I forced myself to focus on stacking the foam pucks into their container. "Good event."
"Yeah. Kids seemed to have fun."
"I saw you watching."
"Hard not to," he admitted. "You were a natural with them."
I set down the puck container and turned to face him. "Did that surprise you?"
"I knew you were good with people, but Danny..." He shook his head, a hint of wonder in his voice. "You transformed that kid. In thirty minutes, he went from hiding to leading the group."
"Reminded me of myself at that age." It was an honest statement. "Convinced I didn't deserve anyone's attention."
"And now?"
"Now I'm wondering what else I was wrong about." I held his gaze. "What else I thought I didn't deserve."
The air in the room changed, charged with electricity. We stood close—too close for merely organizing equipment. I saw a faint scar on Gideon's chin that I'd wanted to trace with my tongue for weeks.
