Page 81 of Cold Comeback
"Bad fuck or good fuck?"
"Complicated fuck."
Practice continued, but something changed. Gideon's game tightened. He was forcing it. Passes became surgical. Positioning turned textbook perfect. Something was eating at him.
The stranger kept watching. Not casual observation—focused study.
After conditioning, while guys complained about burning lungs and grabbed their gear, footsteps echoed in the hallway. Measured and confident.
Coach appeared with our visitor. "Jordan Mitchell, Richmond Juniors. Heard you were in town for the post-holiday tournament."
My jaw dropped. Jordan Mitchell. J.M. from the shrine behind my radiator, paired with G.S. in that carefully carved heart.
The ghost from my cursed room had suddenly materialized.
He looked like someone who'd spent three years learning to live with consequences.
"Hello, Gideon." His voice was carefully neutral. "Captain suits you."
"Jordan." Gideon's response came out strangled. "Good to—" He stopped, started again. "You look good."
Coach handled introductions with his usual efficiency. Jordan knew Knox from his playing days and remembered Pluto, too. When he reached me, his handshake lingered a fraction too long.
"The comeback story everyone's talking about." He glanced at Gideon. "Takes courage to start over."
"Some days," I said, studying his face for signs of what he knew.
"Most days, actually. Gets easier, though."
Guys filtered out gradually. Knox lingered, shooting glances between Jordan and Gideon like he was waiting for the next hit along the boards. Finally, he gathered his gear and left.
Three of us were left. The air was thick and heavy.
"I have ice time at the junior facility," Jordan said. "Getting some skating in before we head back tomorrow. You two want to—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I mean, if you're not busy."
Gideon hesitated. He was calculating risks.
"Sure," I said before he could find an excuse. "Always up for ice time."
My bold decision surprised me. Maybe I needed to see this play out.
The drive to the junior rink took fifteen minutes through Richmond's residential maze. Jordan rode shotgun in my car while Gideon followed in his truck.
"I coach sixteen to eighteen-year-olds now," he explained. He fidgeted with the seat belt. "Teaching them things I wish someone had taught me."
"Like what?"
"That running away doesn't solve anything. It only changes the location of your problems."
The junior facility was smaller than our practice rink and older. We laced up in a cramped visitor's room.
"Been a while since I've been here," Jordan said, testing the fit of borrowed skates. "Used to scrimmage here sometimes. Back when—" He stopped himself.
"Back when what?" I asked.
He glanced at Gideon. "Back when things were different."
On the ice, I immediately understood the lurking dangers.
