Page 94 of Cold Comeback
"I'm just trying to help the team win games. Individual stuff doesn't matter."
"Come on, Thatcher." The reporter smiled like we were old friends. "Your journey from rock bottom to this moment—surely there's some personal satisfaction in proving the doubters wrong?"
My jaw tensed. Around me, my teammates stared. They sensed the direction the reporter was heading.
"I don't think of it as rock bottom," I said carefully. "I think of it as—"
"He doesn't need redemption."
Gideon's voice cut through the hallway with quiet authority. He stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of me, and faced the media cluster.
"He's not a story you get to write," he continued, his captain's voice firm. "He's ours."
The silence that followed was profound. Cameras stopped clicking. Pens stopped moving. Even the reporter pushing the redemption angle seemed stunned by the directness of Gideon's response.
I stared at the back of his head. In all my years of dealing with the media, no one had ever stepped between me and their questions. No one had ever claimed me with such public ferocity.
My teammates formed a loose circle around us. Not planned or coordinated—an instinctive protective move of their own.
Knox stepped up on my left. "Kid's been our guy since day one."
Linc moved to my right. "Never needed fixing. He only needed the right teammates."
"He makes us better," Pluto added from behind me. "Simple as that."
Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, and I fought them back. It was what I'd been looking for my entire life. A sense of belonging, freely given and fiercely defended.
The media ate it up—cameras captured every moment of spontaneous solidarity.
I detected new movement in my peripheral vision. Grimmy was approaching the media cluster, his usual animated energy replaced by purposeful strides.
He stopped directly in front of the primary camera, skull head tilting slightly as if considering his options. Then, with slow, methodical movements, he reached up and grasped the bottom edge of his costume head.
Everyone froze.
Grimmy—Jet—had never removed his mask in public. Ever. It was his thing, his identity. It was a way of maintaining the mystery that made him effective as our mascot.
He lifted the skull head clear and set it carefully on the floor beside him.
Jet stood there in his Reapers jersey, thinning hair damp with sweat, kind eyes blinking in the bright lights. He looked like any other guy in his thirties who'd spent two hours entertaining a hockey crowd.
He studied the cameras for a moment, then looked directly at the reporter who'd been pushing the redemption narrative.
"Headline material," he said, completely deadpan.
The hallway erupted.
Laughter, cheers, and applause echoed off the walls as twenty guys lost it. The media joined in, cameras flashing frantically as they tried to capture the moment. Someone started a chant of "JET! JET! JET!" that spread through the entire crowd.
We surrounded him—teammates, reporters, even the camera operators joining a massive group celebration. Jet stood in the center, grinning like he'd scored the game-winner himself.
I pressed against Gideon's shoulder, both laughing so hard we could barely stand. Around us, the boundaries between team and media had completely dissolved. It was a crowd of people celebrating something genuinely funny and beautiful.
"That's our guy," Gideon said in my ear, his voice warm with affection and pride.
"All of them," I said back. "They're all our guys."
Through the chaos, I caught Jet's eye. He winked at me, and I understood. The moment was his gift to all of us—the perfect punctuation mark for an ideal night.
