Page 73 of Cold Comeback
"See you at seven."
"See you at seven."
I watched his taillights disappear around the corner, then checked my phone again. The team chat had gone quiet except for Knox posting a single word:
Knox:Finally
The drive home was three songs on the radio and two red lights. I was already thinking about tomorrow's drills when I pulled into my parking spot. 7 AM couldn't come fast enough.
Chapter seventeen
Thatcher
Iwoke up to voices in the kitchen.
It was not unusual in the team house, except it was 6:30 AM, and the voices belonged to Blake and his camera crew, not my hungover teammates stumbling toward coffee.
"Perfect morning light," Blake said as I padded downstairs in boxers and a t-shirt. "We'll capture authentic minor league lifestyle away from the rink—the grind, the dedication."
The crew transformed our kitchen. Our mismatched chairs sat in what Blake called "optimal storytelling configuration." Cables snaked across the floor like trip wires. A camera operator crouched beside our ancient coffee maker.
"Thatcher!" Blake's face lit up when he spotted me. "Great timing. We want to capture your morning motivation routine."
I blinked, brain still foggy. "My what?"
"Your daily inspiration ritual. How you prepare mentally for excellence." He gestured at the cameras already rolling. "Be natural."
Natural. Right.
I moved toward the coffee maker, aware of twenty different angles capturing every step. The camera operator shifted to get my "good side" as I reached for a mug.
"Tell us about your morning philosophy," Blake prompted. "What drives you to be better every day?"
I opened my mouth to give the standard response about dedication and team-first mentality. Then, I stopped.
What was my actual morning routine? When no one was watching, what did I do first? I tried to remember mornings before the cameras, but came up blank. Did I check my phone? Stretch? Stare out the window?
The realization hit hard: I didn't know what I did when nobody looked.
"I, uh..." I stared at the coffee mug in my hands. "I make coffee?"
"And what thoughts go through your mind during that process? Gratitude? Goal-setting?"
"Thoughts about... coffee?"
Blake's smile never wavered. "Let's try again. Camera's rolling—speak from the heart about your transformation journey."
Transformation journey. As if my life were a carefully planned narrative arc instead of a series of stumbles and recoveries.
Pluto wandered in wearing the same Virginia Beach t-shirt as the day before and immediately launched into what he called his bachelor cooking philosophy for the cameras. He demonstrated how to make breakfast quesadillas using whatever was left in the fridge.
A dish towel caught fire.
"Shit! Shit! Fuck!" He waved the flaming towel around our kitchen while I lunged for the fire extinguisher.
"Keep rolling!" Blake shouted to his crew. "This is gold!"
Bricks appeared at the top of the stairs, saw the cameras, and tried to look effortlessly athletic while carrying his gear bag. Hemade it three steps before the bag caught on the railing, sending shin guards and elbow pads cascading down the stairwell.
