Page 91 of Cold Comeback
He snorted into my neck, then rolled to his side and flung an arm over my chest, catching his breath. "You planning to knock me up and run a dynasty now? Make sure the Sawyer legacy keeps going?"
I groaned. "You sound like Pluto."
He propped himself up on an elbow, studying me. "Yeah, but you love it."
I smiled. "I do."
He kissed me again and flashed a massive grin.
"I'm not doing the interview," I said.
Thatcher's eyes opened wider. "Because of me?"
"Because of us and the team. Because I'm already tired of being Coach Hollywood."
"What will you tell them?"
"The truth."
The next morning, I walked into the conference room to find Blake and Rachel looking like they'd aged a decade overnight. Blake's coffee cup trembled slightly in his hands. Rachel checked her phone with the manic frequency of someone expecting bad news.
"Captain," Blake said, and his voice carried genuine hope. "Thank you for doing this. I know yesterday was... difficult."
I sat in the interview chair, looking at the cameras pointed at me like weapons. Rachel accidentally knocked over her coffee cup, sending brown liquid across her notes.
"Okay," Blake said, settling behind the primary camera. "Let's start with something simple. Tell us about mentoring difficult players. About second chances."
I could have given them what they wanted—some inspirational speech about leadership and redemption that would validate their false narrative about Thatcher. It would be easy. Expected. The kind of thing a good captain would do to protect his team's image.
Instead, I looked directly into the camera and said, "I'm not going to do this."
Blake's confusion was immediate. "I'm sorry?"
"Thatcher Drake doesn't need redemption. He needed a place to belong. He found it here."
Rachel accidentally dropped her clipboard, papers scattering across the floor. "But the story—"
"If you want a story about second chances, tell the truth," I continued. "Sometimes the system breaks good people, not the other way around."
Rachel was quiet momentarily, then said softly, "That's... a better story." She turned to look at Blake.
I stood and removed my microphone. "Live with the story you filmed instead of the one you wanted to create."
Blake looked defeated rather than angry. "I'm sorry we put you in this position," he said, and the regret in his voice was genuine.
I found Thatcher waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Through the conference room doorway, I saw Blake and Rachel packing their equipment. "How'd it go?" Thatcher asked.
"I told them the truth."
"Which truth?"
"That you don't need fixing. That you're exactly who you're supposed to be."
Wren appeared with her clipboard, assessed the situation efficiently, and nodded approvingly. "Good. Authenticity photographs better anyway."
Blake approached us one last time as the production crew finished loading their truck. "For what it's worth," he said to Thatcher, "you're right. You don't need fixing."
The door thudded shut, and the facility exhaled.
