Page 63 of Cold Comeback
Translation:Say no and get blacklisted. I'd played that game before.
After the meeting, I lingered as my teammates filed out, complaining about having to clean the team house and whether their mothers would see them on TV. Gideon waited for me by the door.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"Peachy. Always love being turned into a storyline."
His hand brushed mine as we walked toward the parking lot. "Maybe it won't be that bad."
I wanted to believe him, but my wishes were swimming upstream.
***
The production truck arrived at our practice facility the next morning like an invasion force. Cables snaked across the parking lot, and crew members in black t-shirts swarmed around mounds of equipment.
"Holy shit," Linc whistled as he climbed out of my car. "That's a lot of cameras."
The director—a guy in his thirties with perfectly styled hair and designer jeans—spotted me immediately. His eyes lit up.
"You must be Thatcher Drake." He bounded over with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who'd found a tennis ball. "Blake Humphries, director. This is going to be incredible. Your comeback kid story with a redemption arc—it's perfect."
There it was. Less than thirty seconds, and I was already reduced to a pre-planned narrative.
"Looking forward to it," I lied.
Blake's producer appeared beside him—a sharp-eyed woman in her forties.
"Rachel Madison," she said, offering a firm handshake. "We're envisioning something special here. The fallen golden boy learning humility from the steady veteran mentor." She nodded toward Gideon. "Classic sports narrative."
Gideon's jaw tightened. I knew that look—it was the same one he wore when referees made bad calls.
"Right," he said. "Mentor."
Not a partner. Not a teammate. Not the person who'd helped me rediscover why I loved the game. Mentor.
We followed Blake and Rachel inside, where they immediately began rearranging our space for "optimal storytelling." The hallway that had felt like home for months suddenly looked like a set waiting for actors to bring it to life.
"Wren!" Blake called out as our PR director appeared. "We should talk about the narrative framework."
"Actually, I've prepared some talking points about our community outreach programs. These guys are embedded in Richmond—"
"Community stories are great," Rachel interrupted smoothly, "but audiences connect with personal journeys. The individual struggle, mentor-student dynamic, and transformations. That's what trends."
I watched Wren's expression change as she realized her carefully prepared pitch landed flat. The story she wanted to tell—about guys who chose to build lives around hockey even when hockey couldn't promise them fame or fortune—wasn't sexy enough for streaming television.
"We need the fall and the rise," Blake continued, framing shots with his hands. "The authority figure and the rebel learning to work together."
Standing in the hallway, listening to them reduce our lives to story beats, I saw myself back in a conference room with my father and his contacts, being told what version of myself would be most palatable to the right people.
The interviews started after practice. The production team transformed our locker room into a makeshift studio, rearranging everything for "maximum authenticity" while making it look nothing like our usual space.
Blake positioned me on the bench where I usually sat, but at an angle that caught better light. "Be natural," he said.
"So, Thatcher, tell us about your rock bottom moment."
I'd been expecting the question, but it still felt like a stick to the gut. "I made some poor choices. Had to face the consequences."
"The viral video," Blake prompted. "Singing in your underwear, drunk, live-streaming to strangers. That must have been humiliating."
