Page 74 of Cold Comeback
Knox emerged from the living room, took one look at the chaos—Pluto frantically fanning smoke, Bricks chasing runaway equipment, and me wielding a fire extinguisher—and delivered his assessment with perfect deadpan timing:
"This is why grown men shouldn't live like feral cats."
The camera crew ate it up. Blake practically vibrated with excitement as he reviewed the footage on his handheld monitor.
"Perfect!" he announced. "Lovable dysfunction around the redemption story. Audiences will connect with this authentic minor league chaos."
I watched him frame my teammates as comic relief characters in my narrative. They weren't people anymore. They were supporting cast members in theThatcher Drake Comeback Special.
The protective anger rising in my chest was real, the most genuine thing I'd felt all morning.
Two hours later, Blake positioned me in our living room for what he called a heart-to-heart interview. The lighting setup had taken thirty minutes to perfect. I sat on our couch where the shadows fell correctly across my face.
"Let's dive deep," Blake said, settling across from me with his clipboard. "What really drives you, Thatcher? What gets you up every morning?"
I opened my mouth to answer and...
Nothing.
Not rebellion or media-trained responses. Emptiness. A terrifying blank where my answer should have been.
What drove me? I scrambled through possible responses: hockey, teamwork, personal growth, redemption. They were all scripts I'd memorized without understanding.
"I..." The silence stretched long enough that Blake leaned forward, concerned. "I guess..."
Panic struck—pure existential terror. I couldn't access an honest answer because I didn't have one.
"Hockey is mostly about hydration," I heard myself say. "And horoscopes."
Blake blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Hydration and horoscopes," I repeated, my brain scrambling to fill the void with absurdity. "I consult my chakras before every faceoff. Mercury in retrograde impacts my passing accuracy."
It only got worse. Words kept spilling out, increasingly ludicrous, because being ridiculous was easier than admitting the truth: I had no idea what drove me because I had no idea who I was.
"My greatest inspiration is how the ice reflects my inner spiritual journey," I continued. "Sometimes I meditate with my skates on to achieve optimal puck consciousness."
Blake nodded enthusiastically, scribbling notes. "This is fantastic! The authentic personality is coming through. Audiences love quirky depth."
Rachel appeared behind him, beaming. "We can use this as transition material—show his sense of humor developing through adversity."
They ate it up. My identity crisis was content that they could package and sell.
After the interview wrapped, I stared at Blake's laptop screen as he scrubbed through footage from the past three days.
Multiple versions of me flashed across the monitor. Day one: Media-trained Thatcher gives careful, professional answers. Day two: Rebellious Thatcher pushes back with sarcasm. Today: Whatever the hell it had been.
I couldn't tell which one was real. They all looked like strangers.
If none of them were real, what was underneath?
"Thatcher."
Gideon stood in the doorway, expression tight with concern.
"We need to talk," he said.
I followed him upstairs to my room, legs unsteady. He closed the door and faced me.
