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“Or maybe it’s good it did,” Pete whispered. “We’re not at each other’s throats anymore.”
“Just shoving our tongues down them,” I mumbled.
We stood there for a long moment, staring at each other as if waiting for a referee to make a call. But there was no ref, no playbook for whatever the hell that was.
Pete sighed, breaking the silence. "Look, we've still got a game to prepare for."
He was itchy. I could see it. I called a time-out. “Yeah, we can do that, but before we get back into it, how about some coffee? I could use a caffeine hit."
Pete tried to look skeptical, but his eyes betrayed him; they were practically begging for a distraction. "Fine. Coffee."
I stepped into the compact kitchenette, its white marble countertops gleaming under the soft glow of under-cabinet lighting. Stainless steel appliances were tucked efficiently into their spots. I moved to the coffee maker, its digital display blinking, and he squeezed in after me.
The room shoved us closer together right when we could have used a little more space. The machine gargled and wheezed as it brewed a fresh pot. I took out two mugs, setting one in front of Pete.
"Black?" I asked.
"Just like my hockey pucks," he replied with a hint of his old playful banter.
I poured the coffee, handed him the mug, and took a sip from mine. The hot liquid did little to reduce the heat between us, but I’d given it a good try.
We returned to the office, but instead of going straight back to our sketches on the whiteboard, Pete sat at his desk, cradling the mug in his hands.
"Look, Hoss," he started, "about that...kiss."
"We were both caught in the moment," I said quickly, maybe too quickly.
"Yeah, a moment of insanity perhaps," he mused, but the way he looked at me, it was like he was trying to read a play I hadn't even drawn up yet.
"Is it insanity, though?" I asked before I could stop myself. "Or is it two people finally admitting there's more going on here?"
He set the mug down, and we stared at each other. "And what exactly is going on here'?"
"Well," I hesitated. "I guess we're about to find out."
I closed the distance between us, rounding the desk until I stood before him. Slowly, giving him every chance to pull away, I leaned down and kissed him again. This time, it wasn't haphazard and reckless. It was smooth and well-planned.
Pete stood, and his arms snaked around my waist, pulling me closer. He wrapped a hand around the back of my neck and held onto the kiss.
His lips parted, inviting me deeper, and hell, I accepted the invitation. He tasted like coffee mixed with feverish desire.
For the moment, the tension and arguments were just noise. I wasn't thinking about plays, strategies, or the Thunderhawks. I was thinking about how right the kiss felt and how I didn't want it to end. We explored each other’s mouths like it was somewhere we’d always wanted to visit but didn’t dare.
When we finally pulled apart, our world had shifted. We were stepping onto fresh, smooth ice right after the Zamboni pass.
Pete was the first to speak. "Well, that's not in any coaching manual I've ever read."
"I think we've moved well beyond the usual rules,” I said.
"Agreed."
We looked into each other’s eyes, and we both knew it—the dynamics had changed. It was as if we were both contemplating the exact same question: 'What's the next play?'"
Chapter4
Pete
The locker room smelled like sweat and ambition, a combo that always hit me like a drug.
