Page 68 of Cold Comeback
When Rachel pushed the mentor narrative, maybe I'd explain that Gideon wasn't my authority figure—he was the person who'd helped me remember what it was like to be seen.
Maybe the real story wasn't fall and redemption, but finding people who let you belong without earning it first.
The cameras could roll. For the first time, I might be ready to show them something real.
Chapter sixteen
Gideon
Blake positioned cameras like he was directing a Hollywood production. It was a sure sign our practice scrimmage was doomed.
"Perfect angle for leadership moments," he explained to his cameraman, gesturing toward the bench. "This is where authenticity happens — the cracks, the pressure. People don't believe in perfection; they believe in struggle. We want to catch every micro-expression when things go wrong."
When things go wrong. Not if. When.
The assumption settled in my gut. Around me, the team went through their usual pre-practice routine, but everything they did was stiff and stilted.
Pluto forced his usually animated gear organization rituals. Linc's easy chatter dried up every time a camera swung toward him. Even Knox, dismissive of the whole production, kept glancing at the lenses like they were snipers.
"If one of those red lights blinks at me again," he muttered, "I'm drop-kicking it into the parking lot."
Thatcher walked in with his media smile already locked in place. He used it as his armor.
We were supposed to be real today. Let the cameras film whatever happened.
Instead, we were already performing again.
"Alright, men," I said, standing to address the room. "Let's focus on our systems work today. Clean execution."
Generic captain-speak. Safe and uninspiring. Around me, nineteen guys nodded, lacking enthusiasm.
Blake praised me from behind his camera: "That's perfect. Natural leadership."
Natural. Right.
On the ice, everything I'd feared unfolded in slow motion.
First shift out, I glanced toward the cameras instead of reading the play developing in front of me. That half-second of divided attention cost me. The opposing scrimmage squad stripped the puck while I was performing awareness instead of being aware.
"Fuck," I muttered, chasing the play.
"Language, Captain," Rachel called from behind the glass. "We're recording everything."
As if I could forget.
Thatcher's struggles were more visible than mine. Every time he touched the puck, he tried to create something spectacular. Passes that weren't there. Shots from impossible angles. The natural chemistry we'd built over months crumbled under the weight of manufactured drama.
"Come on, men!" I called out. My voice sounded hollow and desperate.
The scrimmage turned into a clinic on how external pressure could destroy internal cohesion. Blake kept calling for "more intensity" while we delivered less competence.
The breaking point came midway through the third period. Thatcher carried the puck into their zone with two defensemenconverging on him. I was open at the far post—an easy pass for an almost certain goal. Instead, he tried to thread the needle with a shot from a terrible angle. The puck sailed wide.
In the old days, I would have skated over and had words. Instead, I calculated how it would look on camera—the stern captain correcting his troubled player.
I said nothing. Let the moment pass while the cameras rolled.
We lost the scrimmage 4-1 against ourselves.
