Page 35 of Cold Comeback
I couldn't finish. Couldn't say that for ten seconds. I thought I was watching him break. That the idea of hockey without him was impossible.
"I thought you were seriously hurt."
"Would that matter?"
The question hung between us, but I couldn't find an answer and stared at the road straight ahead.
He was quiet for so long I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then, he twisted the hospital bracelet. "Everyone thinks it was a dare. Or a meltdown. The singing, the livestream, the tequila."
I waited.
"It wasn't. It was my birthday. I was alone in a hotel room for three days while the team was on a West Coast swing. I was in aslump, and they left me behind at home. I wasn't the golden boy anymore. No calls. No teammates checking in. No family."
His voice was matter-of-fact, but I heard the hurt underneath.
"I needed to feel something. Anything. I hit 'go live' because it was the closest thing I had to someone noticing my existence."
The traffic light ahead turned red. I turned to look at him. In the dashboard glow, he appeared younger. More fragile.
"And what happened after?"
"They let me take the fall. Said I wasn't focused and wasn't committed to the program." His laugh was bitter. "Nobody asked why. Nobody wanted to know why their golden boy was drunk and alone on his birthday, singing Miley Cyrus to strangers on the internet."
I was quiet for a long moment, processing. "Wrecking Ball."
"What?"
"That's what you sang. 'Wrecking Ball.'" I glanced at him. "Even falling apart, you picked the perfect song."
"It was just what came on—"
"No." The certainty in my voice surprised us both. "You don't accidentally pick a song about loving someone so hard it destroys you when you're drunk and alone on your birthday. You don't accidentally choose a song about being the one who breaks everything."
His breath caught.
"They saw a train wreck. I see someone brave enough to show the world how he was breaking." The light turned green. I didn't move. "Most people hide when they fall apart. You put on a show."
"Gideon—"
"That's not weakness, Thatcher. That's the most goddamn courageous thing I've ever heard of."
Behind us, a car honked. I drove through the intersection, letting my comments float between us.
Back at the hotel, Thatcher tossed his duffel by the door and sank onto his bed. The hospital had given him a care sheet and two Tylenol. He was exhausted.
"You want the bed closest to the AC or the door?"
"I don't care. I'm not sleeping anyway." He rubbed his temples. "Head's too scrambled."
I sat on my bed, facing him across the narrow gap between our mattresses. Close enough to touch. Far enough to pretend it was ordinary teammates sharing space.
"The boards," he said quietly. "I can still feel them against my back. Like they're still there, you know? And for a second, when I couldn't get up right away—" He paused. "I felt invisible again. Like maybe I'd just disappear and nobody would notice."
"I noticed."
"You charged that guy like he'd shot your dog."
"I was angry."
