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My thumb hovered over the send button, feeling like the heaviest thing I'd ever had to lift. With a sigh, I pressed it.
The text was out there, and so was I—vulnerable and a little scared, but it was done. I’d taken a big step that could change everything between Pete and me. While I sat there, staring at the "message sent" notification, all I could do was wait.
There it was, hanging in the digital ether between Pete's phone and mine. The seconds ticked by, each stretching into what felt like an eternity.
Finally, the read receipt indicated Pete read my message. Then, three dots appeared. He was typing. My heart pounded like it did in the last minutes of a tied game.
"Sure. Let's meet up tomorrow after practice."
The message was simple, but it sent a mixed message to my brain. Was he relieved that I reached out, or was this the prelude to some big, crushing talk? All of a sudden, tomorrow seemed so far away.
As I placed my phone on the coffee table, lay back on the couch, and stared at the ceiling, I realized there was no turning back. Tomorrow would come, and with it, the talk that could either mend the growing distance between us or put an insurmountable rift in its place.
Either way, it was done. I had taken the shot. Now, all that was left was to see if it would score.
Chapter10
Pete
The NHL, for me, started as a dream—eight-year-old Pete watching his heroes as they battled for the Stanley Cup. The childhood aspiration turned into adult ambition, and, as a player, my achievements were beyond my wildest dreams.
But somehow, my relationship with hockey was morphing into something else, something bigger than me. It was no longer only about the sport and reaching even higher peaks; it was about people, community, and the ties that bind you to a place, even when shinier opportunities dangle in front of you.
I glanced around my apartment—the cozy mix of vintage furniture and modern tech, the shelves full of classics and memorabilia, the art that spoke of both order and chaos. All of it was a testament to the life I'd started building in Cold Pines and the person I'd become.
And then there was Hoss. The man who'd somehow slid into my life like the last piece of a complicated puzzle, making all the other pieces make sense. We hadn't put a name to what was between us—not yet—but it was as real as the coffee in my mug.
I thought he was my rival, but that word was so inadequate now.
My phone buzzed, pulling me back to the present. It was a message from the team's group chat, full of banter and pre-practice jokes. I chuckled at a particularly hilarious GIF from Eddie and shot back a quick reply.
As I set my phone down, it struck me that this moment—right here, right now—was my reality. No hypotheticals, no what-ifs. I'd made my choice. I was turning the NHL down, and I'd made the right decision as far as I could see.
Just then, my phone chimed one more time. It was a text from Hoss.
“Looking forward to talking to you, Pete.”
I grinned like a damn fool and shot back:
"Likewise, Hoss.”
Taking a final sip of my coffee, I set the mug down and grabbed my gear bag. Practice was in an hour, and I had a team to meet, a game to prepare for, and a life to live.
And so, with a sense of contentment that felt as snug as a well-fitted glove, I locked up my apartment and headed out. What lay ahead was anyone's guess, but for the first time in a long while, I wasn't worried about the future.
I was eager to see it unfold.
The moment the last whistle blew, ending practice, I was off the ice, tugging my skates off at the lockers and beelining for my office. It had been a good practice, but I had something else front and center in my thoughts—the phone call I was about to make.
Slamming my office door behind me, I plopped down in my chair and eyed the phone. It was time. My fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on the desk as I ran my decision through again in my mind.
Taking a steadying breath, I picked up the phone and punched in the number I’d been given for the NHL office. As the dial tone rang in my ear, my heartbeat slowed, each thump less anxious than the one before. "Pete Zingara here. I've made my decision. I'm staying in Cold Pines."
There was a pause on the other end, and then, "Are you sure about this, Pete? This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. You’ll be on the path to head coach in maybe three years.”
"I'm sure," I said firmly. I wasn’t in a mood to chat about it. Thirty seconds later, I ended the call.
For the first time in days, I exhaled, feeling like I could breathe without obstruction. I was staying. Cold Pines was where I belonged.
