Page 62 of Cold Comeback
The acceptance was so casual and matter-of-fact that it took me a moment to process it. They weren't tolerating this development or pretending not to notice. They were relieved to see their captain finally stop fighting himself.
The media scrum was brief and painless. Standard post-game questions about the goal, team chemistry, and whether this performance indicated we'd turned a corner.
"Great pass from Sawyer," Thatcher told the reporter from the local paper. "Made my job easy."
"Thatcher put it exactly where it needed to go," I replied when they asked about the assist. "That's what good players do—they finish plays."
Easy chemistry, natural back-and-forth. If the reporters noticed anything beyond professional respect, they didn't mention it.
Walking back to the locker room afterward, Thatcher bumped my shoulder with his.
"You ready for the bus ride home?"
I thought about the team still celebrating, the inevitable questions about what had changed, and the attention that would come with playing well again. A month ago, any of those things would have sent me spiraling into anxiety about exposure and consequences.
I'd replaced it with eager anticipation for what came next.
"With you? Yeah."
As we rejoined our teammates, I realized the thing I'd been most afraid of—letting people see how much I cared about Thatcher—had already happened. Instead of destroying everything, it had made us all better.
Jordan had carved his love into rubber and hidden it away. I was done hiding. I let my teammates see me—see us—and the room didn't fall silent or crack apart. It lifted. It was messy, noisy, alive. Love didn't destroy anything. It made the game, the team, and me… better.
Chapter fifteen
Thatcher
Ishould have known something was wrong when Wren flashed a smile bright enough to blind the first row.
"Gentlemen," she announced, clipboard clutched against her chest like armor, "I have exciting news."
Knox immediately groaned from the back row. "Last time you said that, we had to do community service in Grimmy suits."
"That was character building," Wren shot back. "This is different. HSports Network wants to do a feature documentary on authentic minor league hockey, and they've chosen us as their focus."
The room went quiet. Everyone sat silently, trying to figure out which shoe was about to drop and how hard it would hit.
"Documentary?" Bricks perked up from his front-row seat. "Like, we'll be on TV?"
"More than TV. Streaming platform. National exposure." Wren's smile never wavered, but I heard a slight edge in her voice. "They want to capture the real story of minor league hockey. The grit, the passion, and the community spirit."
My stomach sank. I'd heard those words before, immediately before someone turned my life into content.
Pluto raised his hand. "Will there be catering?"
"Focus, Pluto." Wren consulted her clipboard. "They arrive tomorrow morning. Full crew for a week of filming. Practice, games, interviews, and the community Christmas celebration. They want complete access."
"Complete access to what?" Gideon's voice was measured. I heard wariness.
"Everything. Locker room, team house, and behind the scenes. They want authenticity."
I almost laughed. Authenticity was the last thing cameras brought to any situation. I glanced at Gideon and saw my skepticism mirrored in his expression.
"Any questions?" Wren asked.
Knox raised his hand. "Can we say no?"
"You can, but the league office knows the project and strongly encourages participation. Good for the sport, the team, and everyone's career prospects."
