Page 92 of Cold Comeback
Knox clocked us first. "About fucking time."
"Subtle as always," Linc said, drifting in with Pluto and Bricks. No cameras. No performance.
I took Thatcher's hand. No one looked away.
"Lunch?" Knox asked.
"Lunch," I said. "Then hockey."
Chapter twenty-one
Thatcher
The locker room buzzed with a different kind of energy thirty minutes before puck drop. No cameras. No documentary crew. No Blake hovering with his clipboard, calculating the emotional value of our pre-game rituals.
We were twenty guys getting ready to play hockey on New Year's Eve.
I'd never realized how much space the cameras had occupied until they were gone. The room felt bigger, louder, and more alive.
Pluto explained his New Year's resolution to eat more vegetables while simultaneously unwrapping what appeared to be a candy bar the size of a phone book. Bricks practiced his stick handling in the corner, loose and confident, instead of looking over his shoulder, fearing judgment.
Knox sat in his stall, methodically taping his stick and muttering what sounded like either a prayer or a very detailed threat to Norfolk's power play unit.
"Ready?" Gideon appeared beside me as I pulled my jersey over my head. His voice was quiet, meant only for me.
"Yeah." I smoothed down the fabric, feeling the weight of the number on my back. "You?"
"Getting there." He squeezed my shoulder. "This one feels different."
He was right. Since the documentary crew had packed up and driven away, the manufactured drama was gone, replaced by genuine anticipation. We'd been playing good hockey for weeks, but this grudge match with Norfolk tested whether we were becoming something real.
"Alright, men." Coach stepped into the center of the room, and twenty conversations died instantly. "Norfolk's coming in here looking for payback from our last meeting. They're hungry, and they're desperate."
He paused, scanning the room.
"Good thing we're hungrier."
Gideon stood, and the room's attention shifted to him—no acting or calculated leadership, only the natural gravity of someone his teammates trusted.
"We've been building something outstanding all season. We stretch it to the limits tonight and see if it's solid." His eyes found mine for a split second before moving on. "Trust your instincts. Trust each other. Play our game."
Around the room, heads nodded. Gloves slapped against shin pads. Knox cracked his knuckles.
"On three," Gideon called out. "What do we do?"
"REAP THE WIN!"
The sound echoed off the walls, genuine and fierce. As we filed toward the tunnel, Grimmy fell into step beside me. He was unusually quiet—no pre-game commentary about harvesting souls or ominous weather conditions.
"You good, Grimmy?" I asked.
The skull tilted toward me. "Never better," came his muffled reply. "Tonight feels like headline material."
Before I could ask what he meant, we moved onto the ice, and the crowd's roar greeted us.
The game started like a boxing match—both teams circling, testing, looking for an opening. Norfolk came out aggressive, trying to establish their revenge narrative early. They hit everything that moved and chirped constantly.
I kept my mouth shut and played hockey.
