Page 52 of Cold Comeback
There I was with Danny and the other kids, all grinning at the camera with hockey sticks raised like weapons. In another shot, Bricks carefully painted a star on a little girl's cheek while I told some story in the background, gesturing wildly.
In the last photo, taken during cleanup, Gideon and I were visible in the background. We weren't even looking at each other, but there it was—his body angled toward mine, my hand reaching in his direction, the space between us somehow more intimate than touching.
We looked like two people desperate for each other, trying not to be.
I stared at that photo until my eyes burned. All of Gideon's panic about being discovered, and there we were, broadcasting our feelings to anyone with eyes. His careful control was an illusion. The secret he was so eager to protect was already written across our faces.
I set the phone aside and made a decision. I was done being patient and finished waiting for Gideon to figure out what I already knew—that what we had was worth any risk.
Things were going to change—one way or another.
Chapter twelve
Gideon
Iburned the coffee.
In three years of living in the team house, using the same machine, and following the same morning routine, I'd never burned coffee. The bitter smell filled the kitchen while I stared at the pot, wondering when I'd lost control of the simplest tasks.
My hands shook as I dumped the ruined brew and started over. It was not a tremor anyone else would notice, but I felt it in my fingers as I measured grounds twice because I'd lost count the first time. The digital clock on the microwave read 7:12 AM. I was forty-three minutes behind schedule.
Get it together, Sawyer.
I couldn't get it together. Whenever I attempted to focus on something normal—coffee, breakfast, checking my phone for team updates—my mind drifted back to the storage room. I couldn't get the taste of Thatcher out of my mouth. I heard the sounds he made when I touched him.
Then there was the panic that followed. My instinct was to erase what happened and pretend it was a brief lapse in judgment instead of the most real thing I'd felt in years.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror showed the damage. Dark circles under my eyes from three nights of restless sleep since the community center. Jaw tight from grinding my teeth.
I drove to the rink nearly on autopilot—same route, same coffee shop, and same parking spot. Coach doubled up on us—a rare morning practice before an evening game.
"Morning, Cap," Linc called out as I entered the locker room. He was already working on his pre-practice routine.
"Morning." The word came out flat—overly professional.
I settled into my stall and pulled out my stick tape, the blue and white striped roll. My fingers fumbled with the end, unable to find the clean start I needed. I tried again. It still didn't work.
"Here." Knox appeared beside me, wordless, and peeled back the tape end with his thumbnail. "Bad night?"
"Slept fine." That was a lie.
He studied me momentarily, then returned to his own preparation without comment.
Practice was a disaster disguised as routine.
During warm-up laps, I found myself skating behind Thatcher, watching the efficient stroke of his legs and how his shoulders moved. When I realized what I was doing, I accelerated past him so quickly that Pluto called, "Fire drill?"
During passing drills, it got worse. I missed a simple tape-to-tape pass to Linc—something I could do blindfolded on my worst day. The puck skipped wide, and he had to reach to corral it.
"You good?" he asked, skating closer.
"Focus on your own game," I snapped in a ridiculously harsh tone.
Linc's eyebrows rose, but he backed off. Around us, everyone went silent.
During the scrimmage, the wheels came off.
I was playing too tight, second-guessing instincts that had kept me alive on ice for twenty years. When Thatcher madea perfect pass to start a rush, I froze—for a heartbeat—stuck between supporting the play and maintaining the distance I thought I needed.
