Page 8 of Cold Comeback
Knox thunked the table twice. "Finally, some culture."
"I didn't say I chose it," Thatcher added, popping the fry into his mouth. "I'm not ready for that kind of commitment."
"Coward." Linc smiled. The whole table did, even Knox, who only smiles when something breaks.
I sat on the edge of the booth and didn't contribute to the sauce theology discussion. I watched. Thatcher's quick fit with the team made me itch.
He laughed easily, deflected chirps with better ones, and let Pluto shove the coupon under his nose like a proud child saying, "You're saving us from financial ruin." He was good at being liked.
I reminded myself that being liked isn't the same as being trusted. Then, I stared at the line of his throat when he tilted his head back to drink.
His eyes met mine once. I looked away first. Discipline is a habit you feed or it starves.
After lunch, the boys trickled back to our practice facility to grab cars, laundry bags, and shreds of their pride. The locker room softened into quiet again. Thatcher lingered, hoodie back up, hair damp from a shower. He examined the wall of old team photos.
"You from one of those?" I asked, stepping up beside him. A championship picture from eight years back showed a group of guys who looked like they'd duct-taped joy to themselves and refused to let go. Different logo. Same hopes.
He laughed under his breath. "My junior team's board of governors used to frame all the good years and hang them over the doors so you had to walk under the past on the way to the ice. Motivation via guilt."
"Effective?"
"Depends." He turned and leaned a shoulder against the wall. "Guilt is clingy."
"Hmm."
"Hey." His voice was quiet—honest. "Thanks for not making it harder than it has to be."
"I didn't make it easy."
"I didn't ask for easy." He paused, "Only fair."
Fair sits in me like a tuning fork. It's the thing I care about more than goals or glue guys. Not nice, soft, or everyone gets a trophy. Fair.
"Tomorrow." It was a warning wrapped up in a promise.
He grinned. "Tomorrow."
I left before my mouth did something undisciplined.
***
My home is quiet on purpose. Couch, two plants that refuse to die, a corkboard schedule, and a kitchen whose only real uses are making ice and brewing coffee.
I lounged on the couch and answered my sister’s text—Eat a vegetable or I’m driving down there—with a photo of my tragic salad and the word garnish because she knows me too well.
The Bone Yard—our team chat—lit up around eight. Pluto posted a GIF of a dancing skeleton. Linc changed the group name toTHE BONE ZONEuntil Wren joined and renamed it toBone Yardwith a skull and a stern face.
Knox demanded we stop using the word “content” like it was a condiment. Someone who’d saved their contact as “GRIMMY (ACCT PAYABLES?)” asked if anyone had seen the invoice for ten thousand foam sticks printed with our logo. No one had.
I muted the chat and stared at Thatcher’s number. I’d sent him a message last night, and he answered.
I should’ve put the phone down. Instead, I kept seeing practice in slow motion—how sweat slid down his temple, the snap of his wrist on that backhand, and the grin he tried to hide under hishelmet. None of it was useful information. All of it was too easy to remember.
My thumb hovered. I typed three words. Deleted them. Set the phone down. Picked it up again. Discipline is a habit, and mine was cracking.
Gideon:Solid work today. Don’t let Linc talk you into ranch on game days
Three dots appeared like he’d been waiting for a cue.
