Page 67 of Cold Comeback
"They can film whatever they want," he continued. "But they can't change what's real between us and what's real about this team."
Through the thin walls, we heard the muffled sounds of our teammates in the locker room. Linc's laugh, Knox's grumbling, and Pluto's enthusiastic explanation of something probably involving coupons. The everyday noise of people who'd chosen each other as family.
"They don't see any of it," I said. "The actual story. They just see content to harvest."
"Then we don't feed them content. Go back to existing."
It sounded simple when he said it. Don't perform, don't curate, and don't package ourselves for consumption. Be real and let the cameras catch whatever they could.
***
That night, I sat in my room at the team house, listening to the familiar sounds of home. Pluto and Linc argued about movie choices. Bricks practiced stick handling in the hallway. The radiator that Gideon and I had finally fixed pumped actual heat into my space.
My phone buzzed with a text:
Dad:Saw documentary preview clips online. You look good, son. Professional. This could really help rehabilitate your image.
I stared at the message for a long time. Even now, after everything, he focused on image rehabilitation and future opportunities. He'd watched footage of me giving careful,media-trained answers that failed to reflect reality, and his response was approval.
I thought about the stories Blake and Rachel wanted to tell. My fall from grace and redemption through humility. Gideon's steady mentorship of a troubled player. The individual struggles and transformation arcs that would trend on social media and generate engagement metrics.
None of it was true, but they were the kind of stories that sold, and I'd spent my entire life learning to give people what they wanted to buy.
I'd performed for my father's approval, chasing standards that moved every time I got close to reaching them. I'd performed for agents, coaches, and scouts, molding myself into whatever shape they needed me to be. I'd even performed my own breakdown, turning my loneliness into content for strangers because it was the only way I could think of to prove I existed.
Now I was supposed to perform for streaming ratings, too? Package my found family and the love I'd discovered into a digestible narrative that would entertain people for fifty-eight minutes before they moved on to the next thing?
I stared at my father's message for a long time, thumb hovering over the delete button. Part of me—the part trained since childhood to seek approval—wanted to respond. To thank him for noticing. To promise I'd keep being professional.
Professional.The same word Gideon had used in his interview. It made my skin crawl.
I set the phone down without deleting anything and walked to the window. Gideon's truck sat in the driveway, and I heard voices from downstairs.
What would happen if I stopped following a script tomorrow? If I gave Blake and Rachel honest answers instead of media-trained soundbites?
The league office's strong encouragement echoed in my head. Career prospects. Professional reputation. The careful rebuild I'd been working on since the viral moment.
I thought about juniors and how I'd learned to smile at the right moments during interviews, saying the right things about team chemistry and personal growth. How I'd become so good at giving people what they wanted to hear that I'd forgotten what I wanted to say.
The pattern stretched back further. In elementary school hockey, Dad started coaching me on talking to scouts. "Humble but confident. Grateful but hungry."
High school, where every conversation with coaches was like an audition.
Even the breakdown had been a performance in a way. Not the singing—that had been real, desperate loneliness finally spilling over, but everything after. The apologies and redemption narrative I'd let people craft around it.
I picked up the phone again and reread Dad's message.You look good, son. Professional.
Gideon's words from the equipment room echoed:Go back to existing.
It sounded impossible. I'd been hiding behind a persona so long I wasn't sure I remembered how to just be. What if I gave them real answers tomorrow and they painted me as difficult? What if honesty got me labeled a problem player again? What if I protected Jet's privacy, and they made me the villain?
Then, I thought about Bricks and how he'd looked at me that night when panic had him pinned to the couch. I hadn't performed then. I'd helped because he needed help, and it had been enough.
Maybe that's what Gideon meant about existing. Perhaps it wasn't about grand gestures or perfect authenticity. It couldbe about choosing real connection over comfortable lies, one moment at a time.
I deleted my father's message and set the phone aside.
When Blake asked about my rock bottom moment tomorrow, maybe I'd tell him the truth. That it wasn't about learning humility—it was about being so lonely I'd sing to strangers to feel human.
