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"See you tomorrow," Pete finally said, breaking the silence.
"Tomorrow," I echoed.
He nodded and walked away, leaving me standing there like a man frozen in the penalty box, waiting for the clock to run down. I turned and pushed through the exit, stepping out into the cold night air. As I called a car for the ride home, I couldn't escape the sensation that tomorrow's game wasn't the only showdown on the horizon.
As I settled into the car, watching the arena recede in the rearview mirror, I wondered what the hell was going on between Pete and me. It was like we were both circling the puck, neither willing to make the first move, and I had no idea how to break the impasse.
One thing was clear, though: whatever it was that lay between us, it was a game-changer. I could feel it in my bones, but games were won and lost in the action, not in the wondering. Sooner or later, one of us would have to make a play.
The car pulled away, carrying me toward an uncertain future. All bets were off now. As for Pete and me? That was still anyone's game.
Chapter6
Pete
The buzzer wailed, echoing the defeat I already felt deep in my gut. One damn goal—just one—and we would've had it. Eddie had the puck; the net was wide open, but he choked. Skating off the ice, I clenched my fists tight at my sides.
Anger and frustration bubbled inside me, but as I glanced over at Eddie, he looked like he'd been hit by a truck, his eyes wide and staring into nothing. The kid was shattered. I wanted to shake some sense into him, but I also wanted to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him we've all been there. It's a hell of a confusing place to be when you’re a rookie.
We all shuffled into the locker room, the air thick and stifling with the smell of sweat and rubber. No one said a word; it was like walking into a funeral parlor.
Jensen kicked at his locker, his face flushed crimson. A couple of guys were already peeling off their sweaty gear, their movements slow and deliberate, like they were defusing a bomb.
Johnson wailed, "Damn it, guys. We had this one!"
That's when Waller stepped in, "We win as a team, we lose as a team. Save the blame game for your Xbox."
"Team meeting. Now," I barked, my voice carrying enough weight to kill whatever simmering arguments were about to boil over. We gathered around, a half-circle of defeat. Their eyes were on me, expectant, maybe even a little wary. It wasn't the time to mince words.
"Look, the scoreboard doesn't lie," I began, choosing my words carefully. "And while it's not about pointing fingers, it's about recognizing where we need to tighten up." My eyes settled on Eddie, giving him an intense look.
Hoss, sensing the implication, stepped in. “Come on, cut the drama. We all had training wheels once. A team isn't built in a day, and neither is a player."
"Training wheels? This isn’t kindergarten.” Jensen, often cynical, raised an eyebrow.
Hoss chuckled lightly. "No one's saying that, but support goes a long way in a high-pressure environment like this. If all we do is tear each other apart, it’s a long spiral one way.”
He would know that territory like the back of his hand. I had to admit that.
I sighed. “We aren’t a support group. This isn’t therapy. We’re not here to hug it out. But I get it; we need to back each other up. Just know, a pat on the back isn't gonna pay the bills or keep you in the league."
"You're right, but a team is only as strong as its weakest link," Hoss added, glancing my way. "And if that link breaks, it's on all of us, not just one guy."
The room felt divided, almost like a magnet with poles pulling in opposite directions. Some guys were clearly Team Hoss—faces relaxed, nodding in agreement. Others seemed to align more with me—focused, brows furrowed, pondering the weight of the moment.
“Okay, debate club’s over,” I finally said.
"Agreed," Hoss nodded, his eyes meeting mine with a mixture of challenge and unspoken tension.
As the locker room returned to feeling like a morgue, Hoss and I ducked out, our footsteps echoing ominously on the cold, tiled floor. We ended up near a janitor's closet, a place dimly lit and mostly forgotten. The walls felt like they were inching closer, and the building itself sensed the electricity between us.
Hoss folded his arms, leaning back against the dimly lit wall. "What's your problem?"
"My problem is we’re not a damn daycare, Hoss. They mess up; they need to know it," I snapped back, stepping closer. Too close.
Hoss raised an eyebrow. "We're also not a military boot camp. These guys—"
"—need to understand that one mistake could end a career. I get it, you’re Mister Feel-Good, but sometimes reality bites."
