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I leaned in and squinted at the screen. "Fast, sure. But not invincible."
He rolled his eyes and played another clip where the Thunderhawks turned a dump and chase from the opposition into an explosive counter-attack, ending in a goal. "See? That’s what we’re up against. A dump and chase would be suicide."
I shrugged. "Or, it could be the one thing they won't see coming."
Pete raised an eyebrow, pausing the video. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"
"Dead serious. Unpredictability can be a weapon, Pete."
He shook his head like he was trying to dislodge a lousy idea—namely mine—from his brain. "Or it could be the equivalent of skating face-first into a wall."
The tension in the room ratcheted up quickly. Maybe our honeymoon was already over.
"Yeah, well, playing it safe gets you nowhere," I snapped. "You were never a play-it-safe kind of guy, Pete. What happened to you?"
He clenched his jaw, then finally said, "I grew up, Hoss. I learned that taking stupid risks can cost you a lot more than a game."
"A risk isn't stupid just because it's a risk," I countered.
"Yeah, well, some of us had to grind it out on the fourth line and fight every damn day to stay relevant," he growled. "We didn't all get scouted at sixteen."
My temperature rose. "So, now you're saying I had it easy? That everything was just handed to me?"
"Did I say that?" Pete questioned. "No. I said I grew up. Maybe you should try it."
"What are you getting at?" I demanded. "That maturity means sticking to the same old plays and never trying anything new?"
Our voices grew louder and more agitated. I watched the color rise in Pete’s cheeks.
"Maybe maturity means understanding the stakes and not treating this like a damn video game," he insisted.
"So you think I'm not taking this seriously?" My voice teetered on the edge of a shout."Are you questioning my coaching abilities?"
"I'm questioningthisplan,” he insisted. “But if you can't take that, maybe you're not cut out to be a coach."
“What am I cut out to be?”
“Damn, don’t do this, Hoss. We’re in this together.”
I grunted. “For fuck’s sake. First night on strategies, and we’re at each other’s throats. How’re we gonna deal with this?”
Something snapped. I can blame part of it on how late it was. We were exhausted, and inhibitions had faded. The tension was unbearable, so something had to give. I leaned forward, narrowing the gap between us, teeth clenched, and before I knew it, Pete’s lips crashed into mine.
As our lips met, it felt a little like scoring a sudden-death overtime goal—electrifying, surprising, and more than a little reckless. His lips were much softer than I expected for a guy who had spent years in the grittiest corners of hockey rinks.
They fit mine perfectly, and the…tongue. It darted into my mouth, coaxing mine into a dance. I wrapped my arms tightly around Pete, pulling him closer as his hands traveled up and down my back.
Yeah, the chemistry was that immediate, that potent. And for a fraction of a second, I let myself sink into it, let the wave of sensation close over my head.
When we were players, he’d always been a trash-talking nuisance, pushing my buttons and making me second-guess myself. But damn it, at that moment, I realized there was another layer to our tension, one I had never seriously considered.
I wanted him not just as a sparring partner in hockey strategy but as something more. Trying to figure out what that might be terrified me.
Five seconds later, reality brought us both back to our senses. I pulled away. "What the hell was that?"
Pete looked as shell-shocked as I felt. "I have no idea, but it shouldn't have happened."
"Yeah," was all I could muster because what else could I say?
