Page 7 of Cold Comeback
"Simple," Coach's laser pointer underlined our slip-ups. "Support the puck. Short, north, talk. No cute."
His eyes cut briefly to Thatcher.
I waited for the flinch. Didn't get one. Thatcher nodded, and he almost made me smile. He pulled out a small notebook and jotted something down like a rookie trying to earn his way out of healthy scratch purgatory.
Linc elbowed me. "Support the puck. Is that, like, a euphemism?"
I growled under my breath. "Don't make me take your nachos."
Thatcher heard it. His mouth did a quick don't-laugh tilt before he bent over the notebook again.
He had a question for Coach. "On that last breakout, you want F3 soft in the middle or high at the far dot? Looked like we got caught choosing."
Coach blinked—surprised, not irritated. "Soft middle unless they sag, then high. Trust your read."
Thatcher wrote it down. Not for show. For later study.
Practice shook loose the video room sour taste. Steel cutting ice, lungs burning the right way. We ran a half-ice drill, then a full breakout into a two-on-one.
I squared off with Thatcher in the neutral zone, kept my gap at a stick-length, and trusted my feet. He tried to sell outside, rolled his edge, and I bumped him hard enough to say hello.
He popped up without chirping and won the next rep down low, stripping Linc behind the net and tucking a quick backhand before our goalie could seal. A few sticks hammered glass. He looked straight at me.
I didn't nod. Captains don't feed on crumbs. They set meals. But yeah, I noticed.
On the bench, Pluto stage-whispered, "Captain's got hearts in his eyes."
"Pluto—"
"Right, right. Stars, not hearts."
Thatcher's helmet hid most of his face, but the grin got out anyway.
Weight room, after. The air was thick with effort and the smell of rubber mats. I spotted our rookies on squats and pretended not to watch Thatcher.
He matched every rep the strength coach put him through. No peacocking for the mirrors. No half-reps to look fast. Sweat at his temples, shirt clinging, jaw set. That was the version of him I wanted: the worker, not the meme.
Pluto drifted by with a towel over his head like a nun in a protein cult and sing-songed, "Captain likes what he sees."
"I like good habits."
"Same thing." Thatcher grinned around the rim of his water bottle. The man's hearing was too good.
By lunch, half the team hit a burger place, and I followed. Pluto produced a coupon the size of a placemat and announced he was buying.
We crammed into two booths. Knox sat on the aisle. Linc declared that anyone who ordered a salad had to sit at the children's table. I ordered a salad.
Linc lowered his head. "Betrayal."
"Fiber. Try it."
He waved a fry. "I am trying it. Potato is plant."
"Plant drowned in oil."
"Delicious oil." Pluto slid the ketchup toward me. "Drake, settle something for us. Ranch or blue cheese."
Thatcher stole a fry off Pluto's tray and inspected it like evidence. "Ranch is people-pleasing. Blue cheese is a lifestyle."
