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He chuckled. "You always were perceptive."
"So, what’s on your mind?"
Pete looked away briefly, choosing his words carefully. "I’ve noticed you've been spending a lot of time with Eddie—mentoring him. And that's great, but do you ever think you might be...projecting a little?"
"Projecting?" I echoed, eyebrows raised.
"Yeah, you know—seeing a bit of your younger self in him and maybe pushing him too hard because of it?"
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. "I thought I was just coaching. I’m not trying to be rough on him.”
“No, don’t worry. You’re doing a good job," he said, "but sometimes we get caught up in wanting to protect someone from the same mistakes we made, and it becomes less about them and more about us. I just don't want Eddie or you to feel added pressure."
I nodded, mulling over his words. "Fair point."
Pete leaned forward, his eyes narrowing a bit. "So, are we good?"
I looked at him, taking in the complexity of our current situation—players, coaches, and something else I couldn’t quite define.
"Yeah," I said, finally. "We're good."
Pete smiled. “Glad to hear it. I'll see you on the ice tomorrow. It’s an important game.”
As I got up to leave, he added, "And Hoss? Do keep up the good work with Eddie. Just remember, though, he has to walk his own path."
"Yeah," I nodded. "Got it."
I exited Pete's office, my head spinning. Sure, we'd talked about Eddie, coaching, and the tricky territory of projecting one's own past onto a rookie, but between the lines of our exchange was a tension that had nothing to do with hockey.
As I walked through the quiet hallway toward the locker room, the fluorescent lights above me felt overly bright, like they were a spotlight on me.
When I reached my gear, still sitting on the bench in its chaotic glory, I threw it all into my bag in record time. It was time to head home and try to sort my thoughts.
Hey, Coach, you left your water bottle," Eddie said, jogging up behind me. He handed it over, his face flushed from the exertion and the excitement of a well-done practice.
"Thanks, kid. You're learning fast," I told him, tucking the bottle into my bag.
"All thanks to you and Coach Z," he said. I heard the eagerness to please in his voice.
"Just keep doing what you're doing, and you'll be fine," I advised, zipping up my bag.
“Will do, Coach. See you tomorrow.”
I slung my bag over my shoulder and started toward the exit. I was almost at the door when I heard my name called. I turned around to see Pete on his way toward me, a clipboard in hand.
"Hoss, wait up," he called.
I stopped and waited, leaning on my gear bag. "What's up?" I asked when he reached me.
He held out the clipboard. "I revised some of the plays for tomorrow. Wanted to go over them with you."
I took the clipboard and skimmed through the changes. "Looks good," I said, handing it back. "Anything else?"
He hesitated, like he was on the brink of saying something more, then decided against it. "No, that's it. I'm just making sure we're on the same page for tomorrow. It's a big game."
"Yeah," I agreed. "It is."
We stood there for a moment. Neither of us was brave enough to say more.
