Page 70 of Cold Comeback
I skated closer, hands empty. "Bad day at the office?"
"Bad day being a trained seal." He stopped and leaned on his stick. Sweat dripped from his hair. "Did you see me out there? Trying to force highlight-reel plays because I knew the cameras were rolling?"
"I was too busy calculating my own camera angles."
"Hell." He laughed, but the humor had a bitter edge. "We're both fucked, aren't we?"
"Thoroughly."
He dragged a glove over his face. "If this was supposed to be my big comeback, it sure feels cold. Manufactured. Not ours."
I sat down on the ice, back against the boards. After a moment, Thatcher joined me, his breathing still heavy from the shooting session.
"I can't stop performing," he said quietly. "Even when I try to be real, it comes out fake. I have this ridiculous voice in my headsaying 'make sure they get your good side' and 'that'll look great in slow motion.'"
"Coach Hollywood," I muttered.
"What?"
"That's what they're calling me now. Linc coined it after Blake made me redo my speech for better lighting."
Thatcher winced. "Fuck, Gideon."
"The worst part is, he wasn't wrong. I stood there and performed disappointment like I was auditioning for a play." I traced a groove in the ice with a fingertip. "Made me wonder if any of it was ever real."
"It was real," I heard quiet certainty in Thatcher's voice.
"Then why can't I access that when the cameras are rolling?"
"Cameras fuck with your head. The second you know they're there, you start acting instead of being." He pulled off his helmet, running fingers through his sweaty hair. "I've been putting on a show for so long, I don't know how to turn it off."
We sat in the cold, sharing our truth. Around us, the empty arena was a giant confessional—a place where honesty was possible because no one was watching.
"I used to love this." I gestured at the ice. "Before I had to think about leadership and setting examples and being the steady one, I got to play."
"When did it stop being fun?"
"When I put the C on my jersey. Suddenly, every decision mattered and every word carried weight. I had to be perfect all the time." I looked at him. "When did it stop for you?"
"When I realized my dad only called when he was disappointed. It made me think you earned approval by never making mistakes." More bitter laughter erupted from Thatcher. "Turns out screwing up on camera is one of the worst crimes."
"At least your mistakes are honest. Mine are calculated now."
"Want to know something fucked up?" He turned to face me. "You know what I was thinking about during that rush? Not the pass, not the defense. Whether the cameras could see my face when I scored."
"Did you score?"
"Hell no. Completely whiffed it because I was worried about looking pretty on TV."
We both laughed, but it wasn't funny. The only alternative was screaming.
"We should head in," I said eventually. "Get warm."
"Yeah."
The locker room was dark, lit only by security lighting that cast everything in shadows. I turned on the showers, letting hot water chase away the chill while steam began to fill the space.
Thatcher appeared beside me, still in his gear. We undressed in comfortable silence.
