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Pete
Ishook my head as I watched the players run their drills on the ice. Of all the assistant coaches out there, I got paired with Hoss Ricketts. I knew he’d be working for me when I signed up for the Cougars gig, but I respected him for his recovery and return to the game. What I didn’t expect was his ability to get under my skin, just like when we were both players.
As he skated over, I couldn't help but notice he was a bit thicker around the middle—evidence of the hard road of rehab he'd traveled. But damn, he still looked good.
The weight settled on him in a way that gave him an earthier, more solid look. His hair was a shade darker, maybe from lack of sun, and the lines around his eyes were more pronounced, adding character to his rugged face.
“Pistol Pete and Havoc Hoss," they used to call us back in our NHL days. The rivalry was intense, trash-talking each other to the media and heckling on the ice. But God, the man could play. His stick handling was legendary.
Off the ice, it was another story. He skated close to the edge one too many times. Injuries, alcohol, and whatever else the tabloids managed to scrape together tore his reputation to shreds. The bloodthirsty media had a field day with him.
I had to hand it to him. Fighting back after what he’d been through took guts.
Still, the fiasco with the elementary school kids was pure, unfiltered Hoss. Who else would screw around in a mascot suit? And, of course, I took the bait, yelled at the oversized cougar, and ended up with egg on my face when he revealed himself.
I’m sure it gave him a good laugh at my expense.
I pulled myself back to the present, noticing Hoss peeking over my shoulder at my clipboard. "You’re eyeing that thing like it stole your lunch money, Pete."
I gave him a sidelong glance. "Considering my recent run-in with a mascot stealing my thunder, can you blame me?"
He let out a laugh. It sounded oddly comforting. "Touche. But what's the plan here, huh? Are we gonna keep tiptoeing around each other all season? 'Cause if so, I gotta know—am I the Robin to your Batman?"
I shook my head, not even trying to hide my amusement. "We don't have that luxury, Hoss. I'm the guy calling the shots; you're my right-hand man. We've got a team relying on us to be on the same damn page, not replaying grudge matches from the past."
His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw something like agreement—or maybe it was understanding. "All right, no more pranks in mascot suits. I get it."
"It's not just about that," I continued, "it's about putting the team first. Making them better, and by extension, us better."
Hoss looked thoughtful. "Okay, Pete. You do the philosophy, and I’ll help win some damn hockey games."
I took a deep breath and blew my whistle, signaling the team to gather around me. "Alright, men, circle up! It's time for some real talk."
The players converged, forming a semi-circle on the ice as Hoss skated up to stand beside me. I glanced at him briefly, our silent agreement to focus on the team hanging in the air between us.
"Listen up," I began, ensuring I drew every player's full attention. "This isn't just about winning games, though Lord knows we all want that. It's about playing better hockey every time we step on this ice. It's about pushing limits, breaking barriers, and growing stronger, as players and as men."
I paused, letting the words sink in before continuing. "If you don't want to improve, and you're not committed to this team, there's the door." I gestured to the rink's exit. "But if you're in this for the long haul, I promise you, I am, too. So is Hoss."
Nods and murmurs of agreement rippled through the team. Hoss looked at me, a grin forming on his face.
"Alright, enough of the pep talk," I said, clapping my hands together. "Let's get to work. Johnson, Rivers, you're up first for the two-on-one drill. Let's see if you can get past Hoss and me on defense."
Johnson and Rivers took their positions. Hoss and I aligned ourselves defensively. At the blow of the whistle, they advanced. Johnson had the puck, weaving skillfully as he moved in, but Hoss was right on him, mirroring his movements. Finally, Johnson passed to Rivers, who shot—and missed.
"Good effort, good effort," I said. "But you can do better. Remember, guys, you want to force the defense to commit. Make 'em choose between covering you or the puck. That's your moment."
I looked at Hoss, who gave me a slight nod. It was a small gesture, but it told me we were on the same page. We were both committed to the team and to making them better players. And maybe, just maybe, we were better together.
"We'll run this drill till we get it right," I declared. "Line up. Next pair."
As the players scrambled into position, I caught Hoss looking at me again. For a second, I felt a surge of something I couldn't quite name. Ignoring it, I blew the whistle, and the next pair advanced on us, sticks clattering and skates cutting into the ice.
There was no room for distractions. There was only the game, the team, and the pursuit of something greater. I told myself that as the drill continued and the players pushed themselves harder, fueled by the fire that Hoss and I ignited.
“New drill,” Hoss called, taking center stage on the ice. I stepped back, clipboard in hand, and watched as he took over. He was in his element, skates gliding effortlessly, stick in hand like an extension of his body.
"We're going to run a cycle drill. You know it—pass, shoot, then crash the net for the rebound. Make it fast, make it clean. Let's show 'em we're not an amateur league outfit," he bellowed, his voice echoing through the arena.
