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His eyes met mine, amusement flickering there. Trading verbal jabs with Pete was like playing 3D chess. He was always two moves ahead, but I had a few surprises up my sleeve, too.
"I'm not here to impress you,” he insisted. “I’m here to improve you. Big difference."
"Well, Pete, improving me will be a full-time job. Hope you're up for some overtime."
He chuckled, and it rolled into a genuine laugh. "Overtime's never bothered me. Just know, the ice isn't the only place where I score."
Damn, I felt that down below. With that zinger, the atmosphere thickened with a kind of challenge—a promise of more to come. A battle of wills, skills, and now, it seemed, wits.
As I skated away, back to the kids, I felt Pete's eyes on me. Yeah, life in Cold Pines had just become a helluva lot more interesting.
* * *
Later that night, I was at the arena, sitting in the dim glow of my laptop. It was past my usual bedtime—11:23 p.m., according to the glowing numbers at the bottom corner of the screen—but I had a game to prepare for.
Mucking about as a goofy cougar took up most of the day and helping Pete settle into his arena office covered the rest. He’d only been around for a day, so I didn’t expect him to immediately jump into the deep end of game plans.
That’s why the sound of the arena door unlocking jarred me. I glanced up just in time to see Pete walk in, clad in a tracksuit, lugging a bag of hockey gear over his shoulder. Our eyes met, and he looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
"Hey," he said, breaking into a grin. "Didn't expect anyone to be here."
"I could say the same," I replied, saving my work and shutting the laptop. "I thought you'd be resting up, new gig and all."
He shrugged, dropping his bag on a bench. "Rest is overrated when you have a team to coach."
I chuckled. "Well, if you're up for it, wanna hit the ice? A one-on-one might give us some ideas for tomorrow's game.”
His eyes lit up. "You're on, Assistant Coach."
We both quickly geared up and stepped onto the empty rink. The ice gleamed under the arena lights, untouched except for the scrapes and cuts from earlier practices. I felt that familiar thrill rush through me. Pete must've felt it, too, because he grinned as he skated over, stick in hand.
"Ready to lose?" he called out, sending the puck skidding toward my goal.
I deflected it easily. "I don't think the head coach should face defeat on his first day, do you?"
Our competitive natures were still fully intact. We might have been retired from active playing, but we both still had that fire in the gut.
Pete was fast and strategic. He calculated every move like a chess game on ice. I had to be on my toes every second, countering his plays and blocking his shots while attempting to make a few of my own.
"You're still good," he admitted, circling me as we both caught our breaths. "Really good."
"I've had a lot of practice," I said, grinning. "So have you, if I remember right."
We had some epic showdowns during our active days.
He smiled, and for a moment, there was a strange tension in the air, like an electric charge. But then he flicked the puck up in a perfect arc, sending it sailing toward my goal. I lunged, stick outstretched, and barely deflected it in time.
"Nice save," he said, genuinely impressed.
"Nice shot," I countered, seizing the opportunity to knock the puck out of his reach and make a dash for his goal. I shot; he blocked. He shot; I blocked. It was as if we were two sides of the same coin, perfectly matched opposites.
Finally, I saw an opening. With a flick of the wrist, I sent the puck sliding smoothly into the net.
Pete laughed. “Alright, you win, Hoss. Loser buys the first round of coffee tomorrow."
"Deal," I said, smiling back.
Chapter2
