Page 32 of Cold Comeback
I'd maintained perfect professional distance from the other players for three years and never crossed lines. Never put my own desire ahead of team needs. The marker felt heavy in the fingers of my other hand.
One night in his bedroom doesn't change the rules.
When I thought about Thatcher rooming with someone else—laughing with Linc, confiding in him the way he'd confided in me—I had a sharp pang in my gut.
"Pluto and Linc together make more sense," I muttered, already erasing. "Better team chemistry." I erased Linc's name and wrote mine in careful block letters.
Drake, T. / Sawyer, G.
"Micromanaging your line again?"
Knox's voice made me jump. He stood in the doorway, gear bag slung over his shoulder, smirking like he'd caught me stealing from the cookie jar.
"Leadership." I capped the marker.
He studied the board for a long moment. "Right. Our fearless leader."
After he left, I stood alone with what I'd done. Someone had to make sure Thatcher kept his head down on this trip. Someone had to watch out for him.
It wasn't leadership. It was efficient resource allocation.
Grimmy's voice crackled over the radio the next morning as our team bus pulled out of Richmond. He piloted the equipment van rolling behind us.
"The reaping shall begin in approximately three rest stops," came his muffled announcement from inside the skull. "Current weather conditions: slightly ominous with a chance of victory. Traffic report: I can't see shit, but we're moving."
The bus erupted in laughter. Pluto grabbed the radio. "This is Pluto checking in. Any updates on the jockstrap situation?"
"Affirmative. The jock has claimed its own seat and is demanding meal service. We're considering adding it to the roster."
I shook my head. Grimmy's commentary had become a team tradition on road trips—part standup routine, part motivational speech, and all chaos.
Across the aisle, Thatcher pressed himself against the window, shoulders shaking with laughter. He tipped his head back,exposing his throat, while his eyes crinkled shut. Completely unguarded.
How does someone with so much wreckage behind him still laugh like that?
I tried to look away, but couldn't.
He caught me staring and smiled. I turned back to the playbook in my lap. I stared at the diagrams until they blurred into abstract art.
The hotel was standard road trip fare—beige everything, industrial carpet, and ice machines rattling. I collected our room keys while the team clustered around the lobby, comparing room assignments and negotiating trades.
I handed Thatcher his key card. "Room 314."
Pluto overheard and grinned. "You two better keep it down. Some of us need our beauty rest."
"Impossible task for you," Knox mumbled.
In the elevator with Thatcher, I counted floors and tried not to think about how small hotel rooms were. There was nowhere to hide from whatever was growing between us.
The doors opened. "Rooming together makes sense. Less commotion."
A knowing smile played across Thatcher's face. "Sure. Captain's privilege."
The room was as tight as I'd feared. Two beds separated by a nightstand, one sad desk, and a bathroom barely large enough to turn around in.
I set my bag on the bed farthest from the door out of habit, then noticed Thatcher watching me unpack.
"Problem?"
