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I watched as the players lined up, the first trio getting into position. At the sound of Hoss's whistle, they moved like clockwork, passing the puck in a triangle before launching it at the net.
"Nice shot, Jensen!” Hoss shouted as the puck whizzed past the goalie. "That's how you do it."
It was impossible not to marvel at him. He was back in his groove, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. The way Hoss spoke and the authority with which he directed the drills—it was hard to reconcile this mature man with the one I'd butted heads with years ago.
His eyes caught mine, and we held the gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Had we moved past the rivalry? It felt that way for a second, making me uneasy. If we'd cleared that hurdle, it had come a little too easily. Given our tumultuous history, could it be that simple?
“Switch it up!" Hoss shouted, snapping me back to the present. "Next group, let's go!"
I shook off the unsettling thought, deciding now wasn't the time to dwell on it. The players were already setting up for the next drill, eager to impress both of their coaches.
"Show me you want it!" Hoss urged as the next trio took their turn. The puck moved in another flawless triangle, a rocket shot slamming into the net. Cheers erupted from the team; they were pumped, and it was in no small part due to Hoss.
"Great job, guys. Let's keep that energy up," I chimed in, reclaiming my role as head coach.
As the practice wore on, I had to admit Hoss was good. To be honest, he was better than that; he was exceptional. Whatever lay between us, whatever competitive fire had driven us apart in the past, maybe it burned itself out.
I set aside the clipboard and joined Hoss at the rink's center. "You're up, Pete," he said, handing me the whistle.
I took it, our fingers brushing for just a second. In that brief moment, a million questions raced through my mind, none of which had easy answers. I blew the whistle, driving the thoughts away.
"Alright, team," I announced, my voice firm. "Last drill of the day. Let's make it count."
And just like that, the past was forgotten, if only for a moment. The whistle blew, the players moved, and the practice session continued.
"Skating back to center ice, I gestured for the team to join me. "Okay, good work today, men,” I said, glancing at my assistant. "We're seeing improvement, but remember, it's a marathon, not a sprint. Stay focused, stay disciplined, and we'll get there."
"You heard the man," Hoss chimed in. "Keep grinding, keep improving. Take nothing for granted."
As the team dispersed to collect their gear, Hoss skated over to me. "Drinks? My treat. We've got some strategies to discuss."
I looked at him, considering the offer and our loaded history. If there was a time for a clean slate, maybe it was now. "Sure," I finally replied, "but the first round is on me.”
Hoss grinned, and I saw a hint of something more—maybe promise, maybe challenge—flickering in his eyes. "You're on, Pete, nothing stronger than a Coke for me.”
As the last players shuffled off the ice, I gathered my gear. Hoss leaned against the boards, waiting patiently as I stuffed my whistle into my bag.
"So, a Coke, huh? No whiskey, no beer?" I asked as I slung my bag over my shoulder.
"Rehab 101. Soda water and lime if I'm feeling particularly rebellious," he grinned, pushing off the boards.
We walked silently for a moment, the buzz of the arena lights fading as we exited through the side doors. As soon as the cool night air hit me, my shoulders relaxed. Damn, had it been that tense between Hoss and me during practice? Or were my shoulders carrying the weight of the season ahead?
We reached my truck, and I tossed my gear into the back. Hoss did the same, then looked over at me. "So, where to?"
"Let's keep it simple. I stopped in at Dave's Bar & Grill last night. Does that sound okay?” I asked, observing his reaction.
"Yeah, sounds great."
The short drive to Dave's was quiet, punctuated only by the occasional comment about the players' performance during practice. Hoss mostly agreed with my assessments, though he did put up a spirited defense for one of our less experienced guys.
We pulled into the parking lot, and I killed the engine. Hoss looked over at me, his eyes lingering for a few seconds. I felt my pulse quicken. What the hell?
"Let's go," I finally said, breaking the tension.
We entered Dave's, which was half-full and buzzing with chatter. We took a seat at the bar. I ordered a beer; Hoss stuck to his Coke. As we waited for the drinks, I shuffled through some papers I'd brought—game plans, rosters, stats.
Hoss glanced down at the papers, then back up at me. “We're off the clock. You ever relax?"
