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Chapter1
Hoss
There I was—Hoss Ricketts, former NHL player and current assistant coach of the minor league Cold Pines Cougars—trapped inside the sweltering confines of the team mascot suit that hadn’t been used for at least five years. All for the love of the community. The kids from Cold Pines Elementary loved it, so who was I to say no?
"Alright, kiddos! Follow the big cougar!" I yelled, my voice muffled by the furry head. I led a conga line of my players—yes, the Cold Pines Cougars, God bless 'em. Right behind me was Jeff "The Wall" Waller, our goalie. He was always a hit with the kids, probably because of his teddy bear personality off the ice.
Next in line was Rick "Slick" Jensen, our fastest skater, living up to his nickname by effortlessly gliding on the ice. Both had their hands on the hips of the teammate in front of them, fully committed to the ridiculous but heartwarming display. The kids laughed, trying to keep up as we did a wobbly circuit around the rink.
"Look at Coach Hoss. He's so funny,” one of the girls giggled, holding on tight to the hips of the player in front of her.
"Okay, who's up for a game of Cougar Says?" I asked as I broke away from the conga line.
"Me! Me!" the kids shouted, breaking formation and skating toward me.
"Great! When Cougar says swim, you gotta act like you're swimming. And when Cougar says fly, flap those arms. Got it?"
I saw lots of nods and eager faces.
"Cougar says, swim.”
Little arms started doing the dog paddle all around the rink.
"Cougar says, fly.”
And just like that, we had a big flock of ice-skating birds, tiny arms flapping like mad.
"Okay, now spin.”
A few kids started to spin but then abruptly stopped.
"Ah, gotcha. Cougar didn't say.” I chuckled, and they erupted in giggles, realizing they'd been caught in the game's trap.
By the time we'd finished a couple more rounds of Cougar Says, everyone was warmed up and giddy. I was relishing the kids' laughter and my players' lighthearted antics when a sudden chill cut through the air as if someone had just opened a freezer.
Before I could even turn to check, the doors to the rink burst open with an assertive swing, shattering the warm atmosphere.
Pete Zingara appeared, his six-foot frame commanding attention. Even bundled up in a black parka, he looked like he’d been chiseled out of the ice itself—sharp jawline, steel-blue eyes, and sandy blond hair pasted to his forehead.
His stubbled face added a rugged edge to his otherwise clean-cut demeanor. The last time I'd seen him on the ice, we were at our peaks as rival star players—right before my career-ending knee injury.
The fall, the snap, and the unbearable pain remained a vivid nightmare. It led me down a dark path filled with alcohol and pills until I skated back to sobriety.
With my assistant coaching gig in a small town on the rocky coast of Maine, hockey saved my life…again. And now, here I was, dressed as a mascot, leading kiddos around.
Pete skated onto the rink. He was a legend, both on and off the ice. He was a hero, too. He had the guts to come out while still a player, and as of yesterday, he was the new head coach of the Cougars and my boss. This was his first appearance on the ice with his new team.
He’d arrived for a practice session, and I wasn’t sure he got the memo about the kids' visit.
Taking a moment to survey the scene—the team in a conga line, kids laughing, an oversized cougar mascot—Pete paused. His shoulders stiffened. It looked like he was trying to decide whether he should call a car to head back to the Portland airport and flee. Then his eyes narrowed as if he'd spotted a stain on a pristine white jersey, and he zeroed in on me—the oversized, goofy-looking cougar.
"What kind of circus act is this?" His voice dripped with disdain, as though he were talking about a rival team.
"Hey, you! Cougar!" Pete yelled, pointing at me with a straight arm and a wagging finger as if I'd just committed a penalty. "What are you doing? This isn't a joke. You're messing up the whole practice when those players should be doing drills.
And these kids, who are they? There’s a time and place for mascots and kids, but it’s not during practice drills. Who authorized this?”
Instead of answering immediately, I decided to milk the moment for all it was worth. I did a little shimmy, throwing my faux paws in the air, and I turned in a full circle. The kids shuffled their skates behind me and erupted into giggles, and even some of the players still in conga formation chuckled.
