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I’d spent the entire day chewing on my ideas for our upcoming game against the Thunderhawks, scribbling down plays on random scraps of paper, and thinking about how to break their tight defense. I was itching to share them with Pete. So, right after wrapping up our last practice drill of the day, I caught him at the edge of the rink.
"Hey, Pete," I called out, clapping him on the back as he bent over, unlacing his skates. "You got a minute?"
He looked up, an eyebrow raised. "I’ve got five before I have to hit the showers and get home. What's on your mind?"
"Can we talk strategy? Meet in the coach's office in, say, thirty minutes? I’ve got some ideas I’d like to run by you.”
Pete’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. I’d ignored his plans to head home, but he was the new guy in a small town, so I knew his social life was about as active as mine—it didn’t exist. "Ideas, huh? Sure, color me intrigued."
An hour later, I was on a roll, adding some last-minute adjustments to a power play strategy, when Pete cleared his throat.
"You ever wonder what it's like for people who don't live and breathe this sport?" he asked, gesturing to the maze of plays that already covered the board.
"You mean the mortals who live in Cold Pines but aren't into hockey?" I replied, capping the green marker.
"Yeah, exactly. What are they doing on a Friday night if they're not at our games?
I chuckled. "Probably binge-watching TV shows we've never heard of, or maybe they're at Lou’s down by the waterfront drowning in craft beers and wondering why the rest of the town is obsessed with us."
Pete joined in my laughter. "I can't even imagine life without the rink, the games, the noise."
I crossed my arms, looking out the office window into the rest of the locker room. "Cold Pines is an interesting place. I mean, we've got more than just hockey. There's the coast, the hiking trails, the...pumpkin festival."
He grinned. "Ah, yes, the world-renowned Cold Pines Pumpkin Festival. I read about that on the flight to Boston. It’s where people from three whole towns gather together to see who can grow the biggest orange gourd."
"You mock, but it's a tradition. And hey, some people really get into it," I added. “Wait until you’ve been here for a few months. They must think we're equally ridiculous for getting this excited about a piece of rubber flying into a net."
The room grew quiet, but it was a good kind of quiet. The type that ceded space for something new to grow. Pete leaned back against the desk, his eyes meeting mine.
"But that's just it. Hockey isn't only a game for us. It's...life. It's a way to prove ourselves, a way to fight through the crap, and it's a way to connect with something bigger than just one person."
I nodded. "Yeah, it's the same with the town. Cold Pines may seem small, ordinary, and even boring to outsiders, but to me, and soon you, it's home. It's the place where I’ve both won and lost. I’ve been here less than a year, and it’s already in my blood.”
Pete pushed off from the desk and walked back over to the board. "And it's the place where we're going to beat the Thunderhawks."
I followed him, picking up another marker. "You think we can pull it off? Even with all the tension and...distractions?"
"We can pull off anything if we're in it together."
My heart skipped a beat.
”Okay, so if we've agreed on the power play adjustments, let's move on to penalty kills," Pete said, drawing a new set of lines.
I looked at the board, then back at him. "Ready to dive into the unknown?"
He met my gaze. "With you? Always."
Hours later, I stood in front of the whiteboard, red marker in hand, sketching out still more plays for the next game. Pete stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes squinting at my drawings as if they were written in another language.
"So, you suggest a dump and chase against the Thunderhawks?" Pete acted like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "They've got the fastest D-men in the league."
I uncapped the black marker with a little more force than necessary. "Exactly, so they won't expect it. Sometimes a curveball's better than a fastball."
"A curveball can also strike you out,” Pete answered. “Look at this, Hoss.”
He clicked on a laptop on his desk, pulling up some footage of the Thunderhawks’ recent games. He tapped the spacebar, and the screen came alive with the chaos of skates cutting across the ice, sticks clashing, and the crowd roaring in the background.
"Check this out," Pete said, pausing the footage to highlight the Thunderhawks' defensemen in action. "These guys are practically jet engines on skates. Look at that breakout speed."
