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We only had ten seconds left on the clock to kill, and then the horn sounded, announcing our victory.
Our bench cleared as the team skated out to celebrate, each guy looking like he'd just won the lottery. Pete clapped me on the back so hard I nearly toppled over.
"Good game, Hoss. We make a hell of a team."
I threw my arms around him and hugged a little tighter than coaches normally would.
While the team ambled off the ice to the locker room, I joined Pete in picking up equipment and clearing the ice.
As we gathered the gear, Pete kicked a stray puck back toward the goal. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd sayOperation Thunderboltwas your idea."
“Oh, but if you did that, you would have to share the glory,” I said, chuckling as I spun a water bottle in the air and caught it. "Can't have that, now can we?"
Pete laughed. "Glory is an overrated concept. I'd much rather have someone’s trust.”
It was a more serious comment than I expected. I looked at him, my gaze holding steady. "You've got it. And not just from me. I think the team’s all in on that, too.”
He nodded, understanding the weight behind my words. "We've built something good here, haven't we?"
“Pretty damn good," I agreed, grabbing the last water bottle from the bench. "But we're not done yet. We've got a long way to go, and I've got a feeling we’re in for one hell of a ride."
Pete slapped his stick on the ice. The sound echoed through the emptying arena. "Buckle up, Hoss. Next stop, playoffs."
My heart raced at the prospect, not just for the team, but for us—for the unspoken thing between Pete and me that was starting to feel a lot like a future.
"Playoffs, huh? Better make sure we've got enough gas in the tank," I said, a playful edge to my words.
He shook his head, grinning ear to ear. "Oh, we've got gas, Hoss. We've got gas, grit, and a whole lot of guts. And after tonight, I think we've got a secret weapon too."
"Operation Thunderbolt?" I asked.
"No," Pete said, his eyes meeting mine in a fierce and gentle look. "Us."
* * *
I didn’t see it coming, but Pete’s team meeting before the next practice contained one of my most memorable moments yet in hockey.
"Alright, men. Circle up. Let's go!" Pete shouted across the locker room, clapping his hands twice for emphasis.
Players hustled into a semi-circle around Pete, and I noticed Eddie looked a little uneasy. He stood by his locker, glancing at me first and then at Pete.
"You good?" I asked.
"Yeah, Coach Z’s gonna give me the floor,” Eddie muttered.
Pete stood at the front of the room, eyes scanning over our team of athletes. "We've got something important to discuss today. Eddie, the floor is yours."
I watched the kid take a deep breath and step forward. "Guys, you all know by now that I messed up. It's not just a 'missed a goal' kind of screw-up. I put myself at risk, and that might’ve hurt the team. I didn't monitor my diabetes like I should've, and that's on me."
His voice was shaky but honest, and the words hung heavy around us. I caught a few nods from the team. There was no jeering or judgment. Eddie’s teammates listened closely.
"I'm sorry," he continued, "and it won't happen again. You guys have given me a lot—friendship, mentorship, and the opportunity to play the damn sport I live for. I owe you more than my A-game on the ice. I owe you being responsible and taking care of myself off the ice, and from now on, that's what you'll get."
Everyone was silent for a moment, and then Taylor spoke up. "Man, it takes guts to get up there and say that. Props to you.”
"Yeah," Jensen chimed in, "we all have our shit. I've been late for practice more than once just 'cause I overslept. That's on me too."
Laughter spread around the room. Even Pete chuckled, his stern facade cracking.
