Page 45 of Cold Comeback
The goal went in, but I only processed how he'd read my intentions better than I'd read them myself.
Sticks banged against the glass. Knox even nodded his approval.
"Sawyer! Drake!" Coach's whistle cut through the celebration. "Run that again."
We lined up, and I overthought it. Tried to make it ordinary, professional, just two players running a drill. That lasted maybe five seconds. The moment the puck touched my stick, instinct took over.
Thatcher moved into a perfect position before I knew I would pass. He one-timed the shot past the goalie like we'd practiced it a thousand times.
The execution was flawless. Textbook perfect.
"Interesting chemistry," Coach observed, skating closer. "Keep working on that connection."
For the next drill, I deliberately partnered with Knox. Put Thatcher with Linc. Professional distance. Smart leadership. Logical.
I celebrated my leadership wisdom until Thatcher laughed at something Linc said. My jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth.
When Linc fed him a perfect pass and Thatcher buried it with a grin, something ugly twisted in my stomach. When they bumped fists in celebration, I wanted to skate over and remind them both that Thatcher wasmylinemate, my—
My what?
I'd created distance, but it unfolded as jealous monitoring. They weren't professional boundaries. It was possessive bullshit disguised as leadership.
After practice, while shoving my gear into my bag, I noticed stick tape scattered across the floor. Blue and white striped, distinctive and impossible to miss.
Thatcher was using my tape. Still, three days later, and he hadn't switched back to standard black.
"Still borrowing the captain's lucky tape?"
He looked up from untying his skates with a raised eyebrow. "Borrowing implies I'm giving it back." That smile was pure trouble. "I'm thinking of it more as... inherited."
Inherited.
Not borrowed or stolen. Inherited meant permanent. It meant belonging. It meant something passed down from one person to another, a legacy no one could take away.
"Unless you want it back?" he added. "I can find my own luck."
I opened my mouth to say something safe and captain-appropriate about team supplies and proper equipment protocols. Instead, "Keep it. It works better on you anyway."
He didn't smile this time. He set down his skate and looked at me directly. "Why'd you give it to me in the first place?"
The question blindsided me. "What?"
"Your lucky tape. The one you've used for three seasons. The roll Knox said you guard like it's made of gold." He stood, closing the distance between us. "You don't hand that over to the new guy unless it means something."
My throat went dry. "You needed—"
"Bullshit." His voice was quiet but confident. "You gave it to me the day I got hurt. Like you were trying to protect me with it." He stepped closer. "So I'm asking again—why?"
The question echoed in the now-empty locker room. I could lie. Give him some captain-speak about team support and equipment sharing.
Instead, the truth came out raw and unplanned: "Because losing you would break something in me."
Three beats of silence stretched between us.
"Gideon."
"Forget I said that."
