Page 69 of Cold Comeback
In the locker room afterward, I stood to address the team as I always did after poor performances. It was time to deliver an honest assessment, constructive criticism, and refocus on what came next.
I looked around the room. "That wasn't our hockey. We played tight and forced plays that weren't there. Tomorrow we're getting back to basics—"
"Cut!" Blake's voice sliced through my words. I turned to find him frowning at his handheld monitor. "The lighting was off on that. Can we get it again?"
Twenty guys stared at me, waiting to see how I'd respond.
"Pardon me?"
"Your speech," Rachel clarified. "The camera caught some shadows across your face. For the documentary to work, we need clean shots of leadership moments."
My throat went dry. "You want me to give my speech again?"
"Only the key parts," Rachel said, hands fluttering in reassurance. "And maybe project a bit more authority? The audience can't connect with flatness. They need to feel what your guys are feeling. That's how they'll know it's real."
Knox snorted. "Want him to throw a chair, too? Or is that scheduled for tomorrow's shoot?"
I glanced around at my teammates—guys who'd trusted me for three years and looked to me for genuine leadership. I saw confusion and embarrassment.
"I..." My voice cracked. "Sure."
Thatcher stared at his skates. Knox glared like he wanted to punch something.
I cleared my throat and started over, raising my voice and hardening my expression for the cameras. "That wasn't our hockey out there. We played tight and forced plays that weren't there."
Around me, my teammates sat in uncomfortable silence while I performed disappointment for better camera angles.
"Tomorrow we get back to basics," I continued, hitting my marks like a trained actor. "Back to playing as a team."
"Perfect," Blake said. He checked the monitor and nodded. "That's the captain energy people can believe in. When they see this, they'll know you're the real deal."
When he finally called cut, Linc said, "Nice work, Coach Hollywood."
Nervous laughter rippled through the room—not malicious, but deadly nonetheless. The guys were trying to defuse tension with humor, but all I heard was confirmation that my leadership was now merely performance art.
Knox's voice cut through the laughter: "That's enough."
The damage was done. Coach Hollywood. I was the captain who needed better lighting for his speeches.
I mumbled something about reviewing film and escaped to my truck before anyone could see how deeply the nickname rattled me.
At home, I paced my apartment like a caged animal. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that locker room—my teammates' faces while I delivered my manufactured disappointment for the cameras. Thatcher had stared at his skates, too embarrassed to meet my eyes.
By eleven PM, I couldn't stand my four walls anymore. I drove to the rink, slipping in through the back entrance using my keycard. The building was dark except for emergency lighting, quiet except for the hum of the ice plant.
I wasn't planning to skate. I only needed to be somewhere real.
When I pushed through the doors to the arena, I discovered I wasn't alone.
Thatcher stood at center ice in full gear, methodically firing slapshots at an empty net.
I watched from the shadows as he reset, wound up, and fired again. And again. Working through anger the only way hockey players knew how.
"You trying to put holes in the boards?" I called out, stepping onto the ice.
He glanced over but didn't stop shooting. "Might as well. Everything else is already fucked."
Another shot, harder than the last. The puck ricocheted off the crossbar with a metallic ping.
