Page 13 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

seven

LINC

The locker room smells less like victory and more like sweaty equipment that two dozen guys have just peeled off—which is to say, it smells like absolute ass.

And, as I peel off my soaked jersey and add it to the mountain of laundry destined for our equipment manager, Phil, I can’t wait for a shower.

“Two goals for the co-captain, baby!” Maine’s voice booms across the room as he slaps my shoulder hard enough to bruise. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

“One goal, one assist,” I correct him, wincing as I rotate my shoulder. He has the strength of a grizzly bear and approximately the same social awareness.

“Like there’s a difference.” He waves his hand dismissively. “You’re the reason we won, man.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure Rook’s the reason we won.” I nod toward our freshman goalie, who’s currently doing what appears to be a victory dance involving gyrating hips and excessive arm movements by his locker. “Twenty-seven saves.”

“Twenty-eight,” Rook shouts without missing a beat in whatever ritual he’s performing. “I’m counting that shot off your ass in the second period, Garcia.”

“My ass does not count as a save.” I toss a balled-up sock in his direction. “And if you keep dancing like that, you’ll pull something important.”

“Twenty-nine!” Rook catches the sock and throws it back with surprising accuracy. “The ladies love these moves.”

“We’re yet to see you with one lady, jackass,” Schmidt chimes in. “So how about tick that off before you start talking ladies. Plural.”

I tune out and reach for my phone as others keep hurling jokes at Rook. It’s the post-game ritual I’ve maintained since freshman year. First, check messages. Second, shower. Third, decide if I’m going out to celebrate or head home to ice whatever body part is currently screaming at me loudest.

My screen lights up with five text notifications.

Deep down, I’m hoping one of them might be from Em.

But alas, not Em.

What the hell was I expecting after pulling a stunt like that? A congratulatory text from the girl who looked at me like I’d just announced my plan to murder puppies in front of the entire arena?

It had seemed like some cosmic moment—scoring that first goal, then looking up and seeing her there. So I’d tapped my stick against the ice in rhythm, the time-honored Pine Barren hockey tradition when you see a girl you’re into.

A move I’ve seen plenty of teammates do, but never tried myself.

Because, honestly, I’ve never had to.

The whole team and the whole crowd had joined in…

except one person. The person the entire thing was hinging on.

Because, as tradition goes, if the girl who’s the subject of the spectacle starts clapping as well, it’s as good as a ‘yes’ in response to the obvious question, and the panties will be off within the hour.

But she’d just stood there, looking mortified. Her cheeks had turned scarlet before she’d spun around to face away from the ice. The crowd had let out an audible “ooooh” of disappointment, and it may as well have been accompanied by a full-on rom-com rejection soundtrack.

So now I just feel like shit about embarrassing her as well.

I should forget about her, because she’s clearly not interested. But the reality is Em isn’t just another hookup that didn’t work out. There was something about her—something in the way she laughed, something in those few amazing moments before everything went sideways.

With a sigh, I go back to my phone, and see all the texts are from my mom. I tap it open and there they are: Mom and Dad, bundled in Devils hoodies despite being in their living room 300 miles away, each giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up to the camera.

The attached message reads:

Two goal win! Way to go! According to some moms on Reddit, there might’ve been a scout there today!

Great. Exactly what I need right now—more pressure.

Don’t get me wrong. I love that my parents are supportive, but sometimes their—or, being honest, her —enthusiasm feels less like support and more like expectation. I mean, what am I even supposed to say?

Thanks Mom, it’s not like I’ve got enough pressure with Mike sulking all the time, being named co-captain and being put in charge of a bunch of animals who’ve lost their pack leaders, and being unable to stop thinking about this girl who basically ran away from me like I was on fire after we fooled around…

Yeah, that’d go over well.

Instead, I type:

Thanks. Love you guys.

I toss my phone onto the bench and glance at Mike. He’s sitting there, staring blankly at the floor. He hasn’t spoken to anyone since we left the ice, and he barely said two words on the bench, either. Not when Rook made an outstanding save in the third period, or when I scored to put us ahead.

Just… nothing.

This isn’t Mike being his usual serious self. This is Mike crawling so far inside his head that he might never find his way out of it. So, despite not really wanting to talk to him, I grab a towel and walk over, careful to keep my expression neutral.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “You want to grab food after this?”

Mike looks up, his eyes taking a second too long to focus on me, like he’s been lost in thought. “No.”

One syllable. Might as well be talking to a brick wall.

“Cool, cool.” I nod like this is a completely normal conversation. “Maine and I are probably hitting O’Neil’s if you change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

Two syllables. Progress.

I sigh, dropping the pretense. “Look, man?—”

“Don’t.” Mike cuts me off, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “I don’t need your pity, Linc.”

I keep my gaze on him for another second, then give up and head back to my locker to finish taking off my gear. Whatever’s going on with Mike, it’s not getting solved tonight. But eventually, someone is going to have to address Mike’s behavior, because it’s a real downer on the whole team.

But I barely have a chance to sit down again when the locker room door bangs open and Coach Barrett strides in, clipboard tucked under his arm, his expression impossible to read—which is nothing new. The man has exactly two facial expressions: slightly annoyed and extremely annoyed.

“Good game tonight,” he announces to the room, and the guys immediately fall silent. “They’re a talented team, and you shut them down. Rook, decent work on saving those breakaways. Garcia—” His gaze lands on me. “My office before you hit the shower.”

And with that, he turns and walks out.

Great.

Maine gives a low whistle from the next locker over, his eyes locked on me. “What’d you do?”

“Exist, apparently.” I snort, trying to ignore the knot of dread forming in my stomach. Coach’s office invitations are never good news.

“Maybe you’re getting sent down to the minors,” Rook offers helpfully. “I hear Silver Lake High School needs a water boy.”

“I’ll request to take you with me,” I smirk. “You’d fit right in with the fourteen-year-olds.”

The guys laugh, but I notice one person who doesn’t crack a smile—Mike. He’s still sitting at his locker, looking glum. So, after another sigh, I start the trek to Coach’s office. As I pass Mike, I consider saying something else, but I decide to park it for now.

I knock once on the half-open door of the office.

“Come in, Garcia.” Coach doesn’t look up from his laptop. “Close it and sit.”

I do as instructed, closing the door behind me and then sitting in the worn chair across from his desk. The office walls are plastered with schedules, playbooks, and motivational slogans that probably came free with a subscription to Coaches Who Hate Joy Monthly .

“We need to talk about Altman,” Coach says, as he finally looks up. “And I suspect you know it.”

“Is there a problem?” I ask, trying to sound neutral, as if I haven’t watched Mike spiral into a pit of misery for months.

“You tell me.” Coach leans back in his chair. “But from what I can see, he’s brooding like a teenager who just discovered poetry.”

“He’s not that bad,” I say automatically, even though Mike’s literally said about six words tonight.

“He is, and it’s affecting the team.” Coach levels his gaze at me. “He sat on the bench tonight looking like someone shot his dog. This can’t continue.”

He’s right. Mike’s attitude has been darkening the locker room for weeks, but it hit a new low tonight. “What do you want me to do?” I ask finally.

“Talk to him.” Coach’s pen stops tapping. “Get his head out of his ass.”

I almost laugh. “I’ve been trying.”

“Try harder,” he says. “Because if he doesn’t start acting like a captain—co-captain or otherwise—I’m going to strip him of the title.”

The suggestion hits like a slap. “You can’t do that.”

“I can,” Coach says calmly. “And I will if necessary.”

“He already feels like shit about the ‘co’ part,” I argue, leaning forward. “Taking it away completely would destroy him.”

“Looks to me like he’s already hit rock bottom,” Coach counters. “Maybe he needs something to shake him out of it.”

“Or maybe it’ll push him over the edge.” I run a hand over my buzzed hair, frustration building. “Just… let me talk to him when the time is right.”

Coach studies me for a long moment, and I can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes. Finally, he nods. “Fine. But this needs to happen soon, Garcia. The team played well tonight, but I could see his attitude affecting them on the ice.”

“I’ll handle it,” I promise, even while a voice in my head screams at me for taking on yet another responsibility.

“Good. That’s all.” Coach turns back to his laptop, dismissal clear. “By the way, decent game tonight. That second goal was impressive.”

For a moment, I consider thanking him, but the compliment feels hollow next to the weight of what he’s just dumped on my shoulders. So I just nod and slip out of the office, and I’m one of the last guys into the shower by the time I’ve finally gotten the last of my sweat-soaked clothing off.

I head for the shower and groan with relief as the hot water pounds against my shoulders. I close my eyes, letting the steam envelop me, but I can’t get Coach’s words out of my head. Or my mother’s texts. Talk to Mike. There might’ve been a scout there. Fix the team. Make the NHL.

My shoulders aren’t just carrying water right now—they’re loaded down with everyone’s expectations.

I’ve never minded being the guy people count on. Growing up, I was the one my parents called when they needed help moving furniture or when the neighbor’s cat needed to be coaxed down from a tree. At school, I was always the group project leader because I’d make sure shit got done.

But this? Being responsible for not just my performance but also the mental health of a guy who barely speaks anymore? Having my mother constantly dial up the stakes of an already stressful season, with my future in the NHL on the line?

It’s a lot.

I press my palms against the shower wall, head down, and watch water circle the drain. If I had any sense, I’d tell Coach to handle Mike himself, given that’s his job and all. But I won’t. Because I need Coach’s recommendation to scouts and I feel guilt-bound to be a good friend to Mike.

So I’ll add “fix Mike” to my growing list of responsibilities, right after “win games,” “impress scouts,” “maintain GPA,” and “figure out why Em ran away from me like I was contagious.”

The water starts running cold, and I take that as my cue. I shut it off and grab my towel, drying quickly before heading back to my locker. Most of the guys have already cleared out, though Maine’s still there, looking at his phone while he waits.

He glances up when I approach. “Are you good, dude? Coach wasn’t too much of a dick?”

“Nah, standard pep talk.” The lie comes easy. No need to broadcast the situation. “Listen, about tonight…”

Maine grins. “O’Neil’s is calling our names. First round’s on me since you’re basically the reason we won tonight.”

I pull my shirt over my head, weighing my response.

Normally, I’d be all over post-game beers.

It’s tradition—we win, we celebrate. We lose, we drink to forget.

Either way, it usually ends at someone’s apartment or at O’Neil’s, with Maine doing karaoke and Rook hitting on girls way out of his league.

But tonight, the thought of crowding into a noisy bar, fielding congratulations from half-drunk students, and pretending I’m not completely exhausted sounds about as appealing as skating barefoot across broken glass. So as I finish getting dressed, I make my decision.

“I think I’m going to pass,” I say, zipping up my hoodie.

Maine’s face falls like I’ve just told him Christmas is canceled. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I’m beat. Been a long week.”

“It’s Friday,” Maine points out, as if I might have forgotten what day it is.

I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Have one for me.”

Once outside, the cold air hits me like a slap, but it’s refreshing after the stuffiness of the locker room.

Campus is still buzzing with post-game energy, students in red and black streaming toward various parties or O’Neil’s.

I keep my head down, not in the mood for fist bumps or high-fives from drunk sophomores.

My apartment’s only a fifteen-minute walk, but as I hit the edge of campus, a different destination calls to me. The glowing sign of the 7-Eleven beckons from across the street, and suddenly I’m hit with a craving so specific it makes me smile.

A Slurpee.

One the size of a small toddler.

It’s a favorite of mine that I haven’t indulged in since the semester started, but after scoring the game-winner and getting saddled with Mike Pep Talk duties, I figure I’ve earned it.

The bell jingles as I push open the door, and I make a beeline for the wall where the Slurpee machines stand in all their glory.

Blue Raspberry has been my go-to since I was twelve, when my mom and I would hit whatever gas station was closest to the rink I was playing at and we’d both get a Big Gulp.

But tonight, staring at the row of flavors—Blue Raspberry, Cherry, Coke, some limited-edition green thing that looks radioactive—I find myself hesitating. Maybe it’s time to branch out. Live dangerously. Mix flavors like the rebel I clearly am.

I grab the largest cup—easily comparable to a small bucket—and hover between flavors. What’s best? A layered approach? Or go completely off the rails with that Tropical Lime nonsense?

So absorbed am I in this life-altering decision that I don’t notice someone approaching until they drop something behind me. There’s a soft cursing followed by the crinkling of plastic, and I turn, already bending to help.

And find myself staring directly into the wide-eyed gaze of Em.