Page 96 of Cold Comeback
"Good morning to you, too," Thatcher said.
"Pleasantries are for people who don't have eighteen interview requests sitting in their inbox." She fell into step beside us. "The documentary's been... interesting."
"Interesting how?"
"Critics can't agree if it's a failure or a masterpiece. Half of them are calling it failed redemption porn that completely missed the point. The other half are praising it as accidentally authentic sports storytelling." She sipped her coffee. "Rolling Stonesaid it subverted the sports documentary genre by refusing to provide catharsis."
"That sounds bad," Thatcher said.
"Actually, it's perfect." Wren's smile was sharp. "If people can't decide if it's a failure or a masterpiece, that's how I know it worked. The audience numbers are solid—apparently, people are tired of overly manufactured sports narratives."
She paused at the entrance. "Also, Blake got picked up to direct a feature film about minor league baseball. Somethingabout authentic working-class sports culture. Rachel's producing."
"Good for them."
The locker room hit us with the familiar smells of disinfectant and ancient sweat. It smelled like home.
Everything looked the same, but the energy was different. Lighter. The oppressive weight of performance anxiety that had choked us during filming was gone, replaced by genuine anticipation.
Bricks sat in his stall, methodically organizing his gear, and the first thing I noticed was the A stitched onto his practice jersey. Alternate captain. He'd earned it—not through politics or seniority, but by becoming the kind of player others looked to when games were tight.
"Morning, Cap," he said. "Knox is already giving the new center shit about his stick tape. I think he likes him."
Across the room, Knox had indeed cornered our new acquisition—a twenty-four-year-old named Flint who'd specifically requested a trade to Richmond after watching the documentary. With elaborate hand gestures, Knox explained why players who used black tape were "aesthetically deficient" and probably had trust issues.
"Kid's got good hands," Knox said, "but terrible taste in equipment. We'll fix that."
Flint nodded thoughtfully, unsure if Knox was joking or delivering legitimate hockey wisdom. Smart money said it was both.
The door burst open with theatrical flair, and Grimmy clomped in wearing what appeared to be an upgraded costume. The skull head was the same, but his plastic hockey stick had become a scythe and now featured flame decals and what looked like a small motor that made the head of it spin.
"Behold!" his muffled voice announced. "The Reaper of Souls is enhanced for maximum psychological warfare!"
He demonstrated by pressing a button that made the scythe spin while LED lights flashed sequentially. The effect was spectacularly ridiculous.
"What the fuckin' hell," Knox muttered. "It's like a nightmare disco."
"Yes!" Grimmy pressed the button again, clearly delighted with himself. "Norfolk won't know what hit them."
The guys clustered around to examine the creation, offering suggestions for additional modifications that would make it even more absurd. Last season, Grimmy removing his mask was an exercise in vulnerability. This season, he'd doubled down on the character with total confidence.
I realized something fundamental had shifted for all of us. The documentary had forced us to confront the difference between authentic and performed. Instead of hiding behind careful personas, everyone felt free to be more themselves—even when that meant Grimmy with a motorized flaming scythe.
"Speaking of upgrades," Linc said from across the room, "Pluto and I finally got rid of that death trap couch."
"About time," someone called out.
"Yeah, we picked out a new one together," Pluto added casually, not looking up from his skate laces. "Spent three hours at the furniture store arguing about fabric."
Everyone stopped talking.
"Wait," Bricks said slowly. "Together together?"
Pluto glanced up, seemingly surprised by the attention. "Oh. Yeah, we're dating. Have been since Linc asked me to watch the 4th of July fireworks with him. Pass the tape."
The explosion was immediate.
"FINALLY!" Knox roared.
