Page 17 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

ten

LINC

The puck slides past my stick for the third time in twenty minutes.

“Jesus Christ, Garcia!” Coach’s booming voice echoes across the rink. “My mother could’ve caught that pass, and she got cremated fifteen years ago!”

I bite back a response and nod instead.

Although what I want to say is that I haven’t slept.

Mike decided three in the morning was the perfect time to blast Metallica’s entire discography. And when that wasn’t enough, he slammed the door at six when he left, ensuring I’d be like a zombie for practice. But excuses don’t fly with Coach, and frankly, they don’t fly with me either.

“Linc! You have to keep your stick lower in anticipation of the pass!” Mike’s oh-so-helpful advice rings out from the bench. “Basic stuff, man!”

I skate to the opposite side of the rink, putting as much distance between me and Mike’s commentary as possible. Of course, after weeks of sullen silence, he chooses today to transform into the John Madden of hockey, offering color commentary on my every move.

Maine slides up beside me, voice low. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks. I feel even worse than I look.”

Maine is uncharacteristically subdued, because Mike has been on his ass as well. Everyone is walking on eggshells around Mike, but we don’t have time to talk further before Coach blows his whistle.

“Line change! First line out, second line in!” His voice drills into my skull. “Garcia, you’re staying on, and you better hope practice makes perfect.”

Great. Double shifts when I can barely keep my eyes open.

We set up for a standard offensive drill—nothing complicated. Just receive the pass, navigate between two defenders, and take the shot. I’ve done this drill approximately 5000 times since I was eight. I could do it in my sleep, which is convenient since I’m practically there anyway.

“Remember to fake left before going right!” Mike shouts as I position myself. “You telegraph too much!”

My jaw clenches so tight that I’m surprised my teeth don’t shatter. Since when does Mike—a defenseman—have opinions about my offensive strategy? Especially when his advice directly contradicts what Coach instructed me to do last week?

The puck comes my way. I receive it cleanly—finally—and head toward the defenders. I fake right, go left—the opposite of Mike’s brilliant advice—and break through. It’s just me and Rook in goal now. I shift to my backhand, lining up what should be a straightforward shot to the top corner.

“Your angle’s wrong!” Mike’s voice pierces my concentration at the exact moment I release.

The puck sails wide, missing the net entirely and bouncing off the Plexi with a sad thunk.

I glance at Coach, just as his eyes flick toward Mike, then back to me, a calculation happening behind them that I can’t quite decipher.

I brace for the punishment—laps, sprints, or maybe the “easy four” around campus

Instead, Coach blows his whistle three times, signaling the end of practice. “Hit the showers,” he says. “Except Garcia—my office, five minutes.”

The team files off the ice, a few guys patting my shoulder in silent support. Mike doesn’t look at me as he clomps past, his crutch tucked under his arm—he refuses to use both crutches because “it makes him look weak”—and a scowl on his face.

In the locker room, I take my time removing my skates, dreading whatever conversation awaits in Coach’s office. The guys know I’m fretting, too, because they leave me alone. Is he going to bench me? Remove me as co-captain? Tell me I need to fix my shit before scouts come to the next game?

Five minutes later, when I knock on his door, Coach is already behind his desk, reviewing practice footage. “Sit,” he says without looking up.

I lower myself into the chair across from him, fighting the urge to fidget like a kid sent to the principal’s office.

He lets out a lengthy sigh. “I asked you to have a conversation with Altman. Has that happened yet?”

“No.” The guilt slams into me, joining the exhaustion for a tag-team assault on my conscience. “I haven’t found the right moment.”

Coach’s eyes narrow. “The right moment was when I asked you.”

“He’s going through a lot?—”

“We’re all going through something.” Coach leans forward. “You think I’m not? My wife left last month, took the dog. The dog, Garcia. Who takes a man’s dog?”

I blink, momentarily thrown by this personal revelation. “I’m sorry, Coach. I didn’t know.”

“Because I don’t bring it to the ice.” He jabs a finger toward the screen, where he’s switched to old footage of Mike.

“That kid was the best defenseman I’ve seen in twenty years of coaching at the college level.

A slam dunk NHL prospect. And now, after one injury, he’s what? A benchwarmer with a bad attitude?”

“I know.” And I do. The Mike on screen—focused, determined, alive—bears little resemblance to the bitter shell currently haunting our apartment.

“Talk to him before the game against Colgate later this week, because I want him helping us from the bench this season and back as our captain next season.” Coach’s tone makes it clear this isn’t a suggestion.

“Fix whatever’s broken, or I will, and trust me, neither you nor Mike want me handling this. ”

“Yes, Coach.”

“And Garcia?” His voice softens, marginally. “Get some sleep.”

I nod, stand, and head back to the locker room, where I find most of the guys have already cleared out. Practice ended early, but nobody wants to stick around when Coach is on the warpath, so as soon as I’d headed into his office they’d showered and taken off.

I don’t blame them. If I hadn’t been saddled with the co-captain title, I would have been out of there faster than any of them.

But I’m only now taking off my gear and preparing to shower, when Mike approaches.

He’s wearing the same jeans and a team hoodie he had on the bench, and still sporting the one crutch.

“Hey, you want to grab a coffee?” he says, leaning on his good leg. “There’s a new place that opened near the humanities buildings.”

I stare at him for a beat. We haven’t voluntarily hung out in weeks, except for the odd moment of being in the general proximity of each other at the apartment. Before he became Dr Doom, we’d regularly hang out all the time, including with Dec and Maine, and I miss it…

“Maybe the caffeine will help with your reaction times today.” He adds the dig with a thin smile that’s probably supposed to pass for playful.

And just like that, any interest I might have had in olive-branch coffee evaporates. “Can’t,” I say, pulling my shirt over my head. “Got a ton of homework.”

Mike’s jaw tightens. “Another time, then.” He turns to leave, but pauses. “Coach talk to you about Colgate?”

“Just the basics,” I say, feeling no need to mention that I’ve been assigned to fix his attitude before then.

“Cool,” Mike says, then limps away, and the locker room door swings shut behind him with a heavy thud a few moments later.

I sit on the bench, suddenly bone-weary. The walls of this locker room used to feel like a second home. Now they’re closing in, suffocating me under expectations I never asked for. I’m supposed to carry the team, save Mike, impress scouts—all while maintaining a 3.0 GPA to keep my scholarship.

Maine appears from around the corner where the shower stalls are, a towel wrapped around his waist. “You OK?”

Rook follows behind him, already dressed but vigorously toweling his hair. “Dude’s been an asshole all week.”

Despite myself, I snort. “You deserve it, though.”

Rook smiles, “But what about my fragile ego.”

“Don’t take it personally, either of you,” Maine says, pulling on his boxers. “He’s extra pissy about this Colgate game coming up.”

“Why? It’s not like Colgate’s even that good this year,” I say, confused by Maine’s comment.

Maine and Rook exchange glances.

“You don’t know?” Maine’s eyebrows rise. “His dad’s on sabbatical there this year.”

“Wait, what?” I sit up straighter. “His dad’s in New York?”

“Yeah, visiting professor gig or something.” Maine pulls on his jeans. “He was supposed to come to the game, but now…”

Now Mike will be watching from the bench, not playing. And his notoriously hard-to-impress father who rides his ass like a jockey will either witness his fall from grace or not bother to show up at all.

“How did I not know this?” The words come out more to myself than to them.

“Don’t you guys live together?” Rook asks, sitting to pull on his sneakers.

“We orbit each other,” I say. “Like planets. Or roommates who hate each other.”

“Sounds healthy,” Maine deadpans.

“We haven’t talked in ages.” I shrug. “Not about anything real, anyway.”

“It’s not just you,” Rook offers. “He barely talks to any of us anymore.”

Maine finishes dressing and drops onto the bench beside me. “Look, let’s get him drunk drunk enough this weekend to actually open up.”

“Good luck with that.” I stand, shouldering my bag. “But I’m out.”

“Hot date?” Maine’s eyebrows wiggle suggestively.

As I shrug, an image of Em flashes in my mind—her wit, those kissable lips, the way her eyes light up when she laughs.

Not a date, technically. But definitely hot.

And far more enticing than walking on eggshells around Mike, even though Coach has made it clear I need to smash some of those eggshells soon.

“As long as you’re getting some,” Rook says, “maybe you’ll be less cranky at practice.”

“Says the guy who told Coach he had ‘performance anxiety’ when he let in five goals against Princeton.”

“It was a valid medical excuse!” Rook protests.

“Your dick wasn’t the one blocking shots,” Maine points out.

“That we know of,” I add, and all three of us finally laugh—the first moment of genuine warmth and camaraderie I’ve felt all day.

As I head for the door to the shower, Maine calls after me. “Think about what I said. Mike needs his friends right now, even if he’s being a dick about it.”

I nod noncommittally and head for the shower. And, a few seconds later, the roaring jet of hot water hits my face and gives me a second to think. Coach wants me to fix Mike. Maine and the others want me to babysit Mike. My mom wants me to focus on hockey. The team wants me to lead them to victory.

And what do I want?

Right now, I want to blow off some steam with someone who doesn’t know or care about any of this hockey drama. Someone who just sees me as a guy who might be able to help her with her problem while blowing off some steam myself. Someone like Em.

For the first time all day, a genuine smile touches my lips.

My homework can wait.

My captain duties can wait.

Responding to my mom’s incessant texts can wait.

Mike’s attitude problems can wait.

Because I’m going to 7-11 for an enormous Slurpee. Then I’m going to nap before my session with Em tonight, because if there’s one area of my life where I refuse to underperform, it’s teaching Em Dubois everything she wants to know about getting physical.

That’s at least one assignment I’m genuinely looking forward to completing.