Page 61 of Cold Comeback
We scored twice more in the third period—Linc on a power play and Knox on an empty netter that sealed a 4-2 victory. In the handshake line, three Norfolk players commented on mypass. "Hell of a play," their captain said, tapping my shin pads with his stick.
Walking back to our bench afterward, Thatcher fell into step beside me. "That felt..."
"Like hockey," I finished. "Like it's supposed to feel."
Back in the locker room, music blasted from someone's speaker. The guys sang along badly, voices cracking on the high notes, and nobody cared. Equipment scattered everywhere as we celebrated first and worried about organization later.
Pluto snatched Grimmy's role and appointed himself official game photographer, moving through the room with a Polaroid camera, documenting what he called "the moment Captain America got his groove back." He'd already started an impromptu shrine on the equipment bench, arranging photos of the goal celebration, our embrace at the boards, and Knox's victory dance in chronological order.
"This is going in the scrapbook," he announced, generating a fresh photo. "Future generations need to understand the magnitude of this moment."
"Future generations?" Linc asked, toweling off his hair.
"Our children. Their children. The hockey historians of tomorrow." Pluto held up the camera like it was the Stanley Cup. "Also, I'm keeping the embarrassing ones for blackmail purposes."
Still riding the high of a solid performance, Bricks had apparently decided to reenact our goal using equipment bags and a roll of stick tape. He'd set up an elaborate reconstruction in the corner of the room, complete with play-by-play commentary delivered in the worst announcer voice I'd ever heard.
"And here comes Sawyer with the pass—" He launched a crumpled towel across the room. "Oh, what a beautiful dish to Drake, who's in perfect position—"
He tried to demonstrate the one-timer using a broken stick and immediately got tangled in the tape, toppling backward into a pile of shoulder pads.
"And the crowd goes wild!" Knox deadpanned, not looking up from unlacing his skates.
The laughter was infectious. Real. It had been weeks since our locker room was so loose, twenty guys enjoying each other's company instead of professional acquaintances sharing space.
I grinned as I watched it all unfold. Thatcher moved to the center of the celebration, not commanding attention but drawing it anyway. He helped Bricks untangle himself from the tape while simultaneously keeping Pluto's photo session organized and singing backup vocals to the music.
"Cap actually smiled during a game," Linc announced, "I have photographic evidence."
"About time," someone called from across the room.
Knox, still focused on his gear, spoke without looking up. "You know what's funny? I was looking up Norfolk's coaching staff earlier, and guess who's an assistant in Raleigh now?"
The energy in the room shifted slightly. Curious attention.
"Jordan Mitchell. Remember that kid who used to live in your room?" Knox glanced at Thatcher. "Good for him, finding his place. Heard he's doing well with their penalty kill."
The name landed hard in my gut. Jordan Mitchell. J.M. The guy who'd carved his initials into rubber along with mine and hidden his heart behind a baseboard because it was too dangerous to keep it anywhere else.
I looked across the room at Thatcher, who was still helping Bricks. Our eyes met, and I saw the same recognition there. Jordan had found his way to something sustainable. He'd survived the hiding and built something new.
"Good for him," Thatcher said quietly.
Thatcher wasn't merely talented—he was the piece we'd been missing. Not the flashiest player or the highest scorer, but the guy who made everyone else better. He was the glue that held disparate personalities together and made them feel like a team.
He caught Pluto's camera when it slipped during a particularly enthusiastic documentation session. He helped Bricks to his feet and ensured Knox didn't trip over the equipment shrine. He kept the energy positive without forcing it.
"Media wants a few minutes with the goal scorers," Wren announced from the doorway, clipboard in one hand and a satisfied expression on her face. "Try not to say anything quotable."
As I stood to follow her out, I caught Thatcher's eye again. Instead of the careful professional distance I'd maintained for weeks, I let myself really smile—a genuine, unguarded smile.
The effect was immediate. Knox paused mid-conversation, water bottle halfway to his mouth. Linc stopped pretending to organize his gear. Pluto lowered his camera.
Not uncomfortable staring—more like recognition. Understanding. Relief.
"About damn time," Linc said quietly to Pluto.
Knox tossed his towel into his stall and nodded toward us. "Good for them."
