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The next game was a disaster. I made a risky call in the third period that backfired spectacularly. Our opponents scored, and I felt every eye in the arena on me. It was a rookie coaching move. When the final buzzer sounded, I avoided looking at anyone, including Hoss.
The atmosphere in the locker room was gloomy. The air was stagnant like we were breathing in the fumes of our own defeat. Even the usual post-game hustle—the snapping of equipment straps, the clatter of hockey sticks—felt muted. It was the third loss in a row, and it hurt. We couldn’t lose any more games and still make the playoffs.
I had to address the team somehow. I glanced over at Hoss, who stood with his clipboard, silently jotting down notes. It wasn’t his responsibility. I was the head coach, and I felt as lost as a rookie player on his first day.
“Listen up!" I barked. No one moved, but at least a few eyes flicked upward to meet mine. "Yeah, we lost. We played like crap, but there's a new day tomorrow. It's just hours away. Shake it off. We’re not out of it. This is still our season to lose."
A few heads nodded. None of them were enthusiastic, but it was something. Others stared at their gear, their expressions unreadable behind masks of frustration and fatigue.
"We've got practice early tomorrow. Be there, be ready, and for the love of God, bring your A-game," I finished, my gaze sweeping across the room, trying to instill some fire in my men.
The team began to disperse. I missed the usual chatter and discussions about where to hang out for the evening. Instead, zippers and the thud of bags hoisted over shoulders constituted the sound of disappointment.
As the room cleared out, leaving just Hoss and me, I felt the gravity of what lay ahead. We stood on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the abyss. One more loss and our playoff dreams would tumble off the edge, dragging us along for the ride.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at the screen—Coach Benton, my old mentor.
"Excuse me for a sec," I whispered to Hoss, stepping out to take the call in the hallway.
"Hey, Coach, how's it going?" I answered, trying to force as much cheer into my voice as possible.
"Cut the small talk, Pete. I’ve seen the news. What's going on in Cold Pines?” Coach Benton was never one to mince words.
I sighed. "It's complicated, Coach. We're in a rut. And the playoffs..."
"You think I don't know what a losing streak feels like? Pete, you've been there. As a player, it happened many times. This isn't your first rodeo."
"I know, but this feels different. It's my first season coaching, and I feel like I need to prove myself. They invested a lot in me. I’m supposed to have the answers, and right now, I'm drawing a blank."
Coach Benton was silent on the other end, long enough to make me wonder if the call had dropped. Finally, he spoke up. "You remember our division championship back in the day? You know the one I’m talking about.”
"How could I forget? We barely made it. We beat the next team by only one point.”
"Yes, that’s true, but we made it because we remembered why we were playing in the first place. Even if we didn’t make it, we’d learned some good lessons. It's not just about lifting a trophy at the end of the season. It's about the team, the game, and the passion that drives you. You've got to pass that on to your men, especially when the chips are down."
"You're right, Coach," I said, feeling his words bolster me. "Thanks for the reminder."
"Anytime. And Pete?"
"Yeah?"
"Quit being so hard on yourself. You're not alone in this. Lean on your assistant, and lean on your team. That's what they're there for."
I ended the call and returned to the locker room where Hoss was waiting. I looked at him and knew I had to let him in, let him share my load. Coach Benton was right; it wasn't just about me.
"Sorry about that," I said, sitting beside Hoss. “Had to take that one. You remember Benton. He had some...insights."
Hoss turned his head. "Good insights, I hope?"
“Probably enough to knock some sense into me."
"Care to share?" Hoss asked, putting his clipboard down.
"Later," I promised, "but for now, just know I’m ready to turn this thing around."
* * *
Later that night, at my apartment, Hoss tried to lighten the mood. He put on some music and cooked a late dinner. It was a great attempt, but I still felt like I was standing in a graveyard looking for the way out to the land of the living.
