Page 26 of High Sticks

I let his words sink in as I took a bite of my scrambled eggs, suddenly tasting better than any late-night diner fare had a right to. Was I ready to make that kind of commitment? To truly invest in something not scripted by everyone else's expectations?

I looked up to find Hoss watching me.”

Yeah," I said. “I think I know what I've got to do."

Chapter9

Hoss

Confidence filled the locker room with energy that electrified the air, and everyone felt it. It was that high-octane sensation after a recent victory where every play seemed to click.

I was still riding on a high from the late-night breakfast with Pete, and as I strolled among the team, high-fiving my guys, it felt like I was in the zone.

Amid the energetic atmosphere, I noticed Pete's interaction with the players. It was nothing overt, no dramatic shift in tone, but subtle enough for me to pick up.

“Jensen, work on those shots,” he said, his eyes scanning the practice stats on his clipboard. He looked up only briefly to make sure his point had landed.

"Eddie, your awareness of the defenders needs improvement," he added, flagging down the rookie. Again, no eye contact, no conversation.

The Pete I knew would've gone further, maybe even showing Eddie examples on video. Instead, he was operating on autopilot.

Pete was usually Mr. Personality with the team. Players looked up to him. Hell, they wanted to be him. But today, he was operating like he was checking boxes on a to-do list. His voice was the same, minus the warmth, like listening to rehearsed lines delivered in a high school play.

"Everything okay?" I asked as we wrapped up practice.

"Fine, just focusing on the upcoming match against the Raptors. That's what we all should be doing," he insisted. With that, the shield went up, and I could barely see around it.

I nodded and moved away, giving Pete space. The separation was new for us. I’d grown used to the daily rough-and-tumble banter. Did this mean he’d changed his mind on the NHL offer?

While I was dissecting plays in our cramped projection room, Eddie sauntered in. "Hey, Coach. Gossip mill's buzzing. They say Coach Z might be NHL-bound. Anything you can share?”

I paused the playback. "That so? And where’d this top-tier intel come from? The water boy?"

Eddie shrugged, mischief on his face. "Could be. He’s got his ear pretty close to the ground. You know, while he’s tying our skates."

I sighed, already regretting my snappy retort. "Look, focus on keeping your head in the game, not in the rumor gutter."

His face fell a bit, and I instantly felt like an ass. My confusion over Pete’s choice had me shooting daggers even at a player like Eddie.

“Got it, Coach,” he said, retreating.

* * *

The gym was my sanctuary. The weights didn't judge; they didn't ask questions. They gave you back precisely what you put in. So when I needed an escape, I'd lace up my shoes and head straight for the weight room. After Pete’s cold shoulder, I almost bolted there.

My grip tightened around the barbell as I set up for deadlifts. I felt my muscles tense. I lifted. The barbell hit the ground with a satisfying thud each time, but it didn’t clear my mind.

"Coach? Mind if I join you?"

The voice snapped me back to reality. I looked up to find Taylor, a defenseman in his second year with the team, barely older than Eddie, standing there. He was holding a pair of dumbbells, eyes sparkling with youthful enthusiasm.

"Sure. Knock yourself out," I said, moving over to give him room.

He positioned himself next to me, flexing his arms before he started his bicep curls. The kid had good form; I'd give him that.

"So, how do you think the season's going?" he asked between reps.

“All is well so far. I think we've got a strong shot at the playoffs if we keep up our concentration,” I replied, unloading the barbell to switch to another set.

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