Page 29 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

eighteen

LINC

The crowd roars as we skate onto the ice for warmups. Brown’s always been a rival, and tonight the stands are so packed I can barely see a sliver of the faded blue seats beneath the sea of crimson and black. It’s like everyone on the whole campus is here.

Except for Mike.

I scan the bench where he should be, hoping for a last-minute appearance, but that space remains conspicuously empty, like an accusation in hockey gear. I’ve barely seen him and not spoken to him since our argument, but to miss a game… asshole.

Coach approaches me. “Your co-captain decided to sit this one out?”

“Looks that way,” I say, not meeting his eyes.

“That talk with him went well, then?” His tone tells me he knows the answer.

I bite back a sigh. “I tried.”

“Try harder.” He blows his whistle, signaling the team to gather around.

The comment stings, especially coming from a guy who’s mentally checked out since his breakup. For the last month or so, Coach’s enthusiasm for his job ranges somewhere between filing taxes and watching paint dry, and it’s putting a lot of extra pressure on me.

“All right,” he calls, his voice barely rising above conversational level.

“Brown’s defense has been solid this season, but they’ve got a habit of collapsing too deep.

Cycle the puck. Open up the shooting lanes.

And let’s keep things tight when they’ve got it.

And Garcia, I’m going to need more from you tonight. ”

I nod, but as the huddle breaks, I struggle to force down the resentment. His speech was about as inspirational as flat beer, and it’s clear he’s going through the motions. But it makes the weight of expectation on my shoulders even heavier, because now the guys know he’s singling me out.

Hell, why not, right?

With Declan gone, Mike absent, and Coach sleepwalking through the season, I’m carrying this team alone. Maine is good for a laugh, but he’s not exactly leadership material, and apart from him there’s Rook—a pretty good goalie, but a freshman and a total joker—and a bunch of beige.

My gaze drifts up to the stands, zeroing in on exactly what I don’t want to see—a man in a charcoal suit holding a notepad, sitting exactly where Mom said the scout would be. He’s got that impassive hockey scout face, as he watches the game and occasionally writes things down.

Great. Perfect timing for my internal meltdown and Mike’s disappearing act.

The buzzer ends warmups, and the student section erupts as we get into position for the opening face off. The puck drops, and immediately I know something’s off. My legs feel heavy, my timing’s wrong, and my usual instincts seem to have taken the night off along with Mike.

My first pass goes nowhere near Maine, sliding to a Brown defender who starts a counterattack. I scramble back into a defensive position, but not quickly enough. Brown’s forward—some guy with a stupid mustache and annoyingly perfect stick-handling—dekes past me like I’m wearing cement skates.

Shot. Score.

Just like that, a minute in, we’re down 1–0.

The next shift is even worse. I get the puck at the point, try to work it along the boards, but telegraph my pass so obviously a blind penguin could have intercepted it. The Brown winger picks it off, beats me to the outside, and suddenly he’s going in alone on Rook.

Shot. Score. 2–0.

“What the fuck was that, Garcia?” Coach’s voice finally shows some emotion—disappointment wrapped in irritation.

I have no answer, so I just pretend I don’t hear him or notice the sideways glances of my teammates. And, suddenly, Mike’s words from the other night replay in my head: “Let’s be real—you’ve spent the last three years being mediocre, Linc.”

Without meaning to, I glance at the scout in the stands, who’s scribbling something in his notebook.

I’d love to know what he’s writing, but deep down I know.

Because by the end of the first period, we’re down 2–0, and I’ve just played twenty minutes of hockey that would embarrass a beer league substitute.

The intermission is a special kind of hell. Coach gives us a lackluster speech that basically amounts to “play better,” while the guys avoid eye contact with me. I sit in my stall, staring at my skates like they might explain why my hockey skills apparently got kidnapped overnight.

It doesn’t help that Mike’s empty locker is right there, a constant reminder of how I’ve failed as co-captain. I haven’t just failed to bring him back into the fold, I’ve pushed him away entirely, and the other guys are clearly rattled as well, looking at me for answers and finding none.

But before we can come up with any solution, the buzzer sounds for the second period, and we file back onto the ice.

The second period starts no better than the first. My passes still feel off, like I’m trying to thread needles while wearing oven mitts. And, like predators, the Brown players sense my hesitation and capitalize, pressuring me every time the puck comes my way.

Midway through the period, Maine manages to strip the puck from a Brown forward and flips it ahead to me. For one glorious moment, it feels like everything clicks back into place. The ice opens up, and I’ve got a clear lane down the right side.

Then Brown’s star defenseman, Reynolds, appears in my peripheral vision. Six-foot-four of arrogance and a mean streak that would scare off a rattlesnake. Mike had had a run-in with him last season and came off second best, and Mike is a hell of a lot bigger than me, to say the least.

But what happens next unfolds in slow motion.

Maine, following the play, skates full-speed into the trap.

Reynolds abandons me, pivots, and drives his shoulder directly into Maine’s chest, sending him flying into the boards with a sickening crack.

The sound echoes through the arena, momentarily silencing the crowd before outraged shouts erupt from our fans.

Even as my shot on goal is saved by the Brown goalie, Maine crumples to the ice, and even from several feet away, I can see he’s struggling to breathe.

I forget the puck, skate over immediately, rage building as Reynolds hovers nearby.

The ref blows the whistle, signaling a penalty, but that’s not good enough for me.

“Are you good?” I ask Maine, who’s pushing himself up, face contorted in pain.

“Yeah,” he wheezes, clutching his ribs. “Just got the wind knocked out.”

Reynolds snorts. “Maybe if your captain wasn’t such a pussy…”

I freeze, the words striking precisely where I’m most raw.

“What did you just say?” I turn slowly to face him.

Reynolds smirks, his mouth guard making his words slightly slurred. “I said your program’s pathetic. First your star forward bails to play with paintbrushes, then your real captain can’t handle a little boo-boo.” He mimics wiping tears. “Now they’ve got you pretending to lead a team.”

Something snaps inside me—an almost audible crack like thin ice giving way.

And, before I realize what I’m doing, my gloves hit the ice with a soft thud.

This is dumb. This is so fucking dumb.

But I can’t stop myself.

I take a swing. It’s loaded with all the frustration about Mike, about Coach, about my mom’s expectations, about that scout watching my worst game of the season.

It hits Reynolds on the chin, right where there’s very little protection from his helmet, but I may as well have been punching a stone statue.

Reynolds grins, dropping his gloves eagerly. “About time somebody on your team showed some balls.”

The first punch comes faster than I expect, catching me on the cheekbone. Pain explodes across my face, even as my mind again shouts at me that this is a dumb idea, but adrenaline immediately numbs it. I return with a jab to his stomach, then grab his jersey to steady myself.

The ice becomes a spinning carousel as we grapple, throwing awkward punches between attempts to maintain balance. Fighting on skates is nothing like fighting on solid ground— it’s more about leverage and not falling on your ass than actual punching technique.

I land a solid right hook to his jaw that sends vibrations up my arm. His head snaps back, but he recovers quickly, charging forward and driving his fist straight into my mouth. I taste copper immediately, and feel warm blood flowing over my tongue.

The refs are circling now, waiting for the right moment to intervene.

And when Reynolds lands another blow to my ribs that makes me gasp, I fear I might drop, but I manage to pull him off-balance, causing him to stumble.

As he tries to regain his footing, I connect with an uppercut that snaps his head back.

And sends him to the ice.

Finally, the linesmen move in, separating us as the crowd roars with bloodthirsty approval. The student section is on their feet, chanting something I can’t make out through the buzzing in my ears. I spit a mouthful of blood onto the ice, only now becoming aware of the throbbing in my lip.

“Worth it?” Maine asks as I’m escorted to the penalty box.

I glance at Reynolds being led away, his nose bleeding and the smirk gone.

“Absolutely,” I say through swollen lips.

As I settle into the penalty box, I scan the crowd reflexively. The scout is still there, writing furiously in his notebook. Great. Either I’ve completely tanked my prospects, or he’s impressed by my willingness to defend a teammate. Who the fuck knows, and at this point, I’m not sure I care.

But then I notice something else.

Em.

She’s sitting in the middle of the student section, next to Lea and Declan, wearing my jersey—my number clearly visible even from this distance.

And she looks as concerned as hell, her eyes staying on me even as the game continues and the crowd forgets the gladiator who just earned himself four in the box.