Page 36 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

twenty-two

LINC

The puck slides perfectly onto my stick. A split-second hesitation—just enough to draw the defender in—then I flick my wrists and send it to Maine, who’s streaking down the left side, leaving his opponent chasing ass halfway down the ice.

Perfect timing.

The crowd roars as Maine slams it top shelf. Seventy-eight seconds left in the period and we’re up by two. The scoreboard flashes 3–1, and the guys pile onto Maine like he just won us the Stanley Cup instead of scoring against Dartmouth in a regular-season game.

As we skate back to center ice, I catch Mike’s approving nod from the bench.

Having him back as captain—with a new attitude—has changed the entire team dynamic.

For the better, obviously. Amazing what happens when your leadership isn’t composed entirely of brooding silence and barely concealed resentment.

Coach Barrett signals for a line change, and I gratefully glide toward the bench, my lungs burning. I’ve been sharper tonight than I’ve been all season. My passes are connecting, my shots are on target, and my defensive positioning has been textbook.

“Sick assist,” Rook says, enjoying a rare moment on the bench as Coach bloods a new goalie.

“Sick save earlier,” I reply, referencing the ridiculous glove save he made five minutes ago that had the entire arena on their feet.

As I gulp water, my phone buzzes from beneath my spot on the bench. We’re not technically allowed to have phones on the bench, but Coach turns a blind eye to the seniors doing it. Normally, I’d ignore it until after the game, but we’re seconds from the end of the period, so I sneak a quick look.

It’s my mom:

Two scouts in the stands tonight! Read it on the Hockey Prospects sub-Reddit. One Detroit, one Seattle. Show them what my boy can do!!!

“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving the phone back into my pocket.

“What’s up?” Maine asks, sliding in beside me.

“Nothing.” I force a smile. “Just my mom with her usual pep talk.”

What I don’t say:

Thanks, Mom, because I needed more pressure on a night when I’m already playing out of my mind while dreading the inevitable post-game confrontation with the girl I’m trying not to fall for.

Perfect timing. Really.

The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the first period. We file into the locker room, where Coach gives us his version of a motivational speech, which involves listing all the ways we could still screw this up while occasionally acknowledging that we “aren’t completely embarrassing” tonight.

I barely register the speech. Something about maintaining pressure, not letting Dartmouth back in the game, and—in a shocking turn of events—praising Maine’s goal. Coach using the word “decent” is practically a standing ovation by his standards.

My thoughts keep circling back to the fact that in a few hours, I’ll be at Declan’s party, in the same room as Em.

Lea texted Mike earlier, asking him to tell me that she was bringing Em along.

And, after canceling our last lesson with the world’s lamest excuse, I’ve reached the end of my avoidance tactic runway.

Something has to give tonight. Our arrangement can’t continue in this weird limbo where I’m too freaked out by my growing feelings to face her, but too attached to officially end things. And, judging by the look in her eyes when she came for me, I think she wants?—

“Garcia!”

I jolt, suddenly aware that Coach has been talking to me.

“Yes, Coach?”

“Did you hear a single word I said?” His usual scowl deepens.

“Sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again.”

The time for the second period approaches too quickly. I tighten my skates, adjust my gear, and try to focus on the game rather than everything else swirling in my head. Mom’s text has me pissed. I know she thinks she’s helping, but all it does is make me hyperaware of every move, and the crowd.

Maine slaps me on the back as we return to the ice. “Let’s fucking go!”

I nod, attempting to match his enthusiasm, but internally I’m a mess.

The scouts in the stand.

The prospect of seeing Em tonight.

Anger at my Mom.

The pressure feels like it’s compressing my chest, making each breath shorter than the last. Mike said I was overthinking things, but when exactly am I supposed to find time to work through my feelings when I’ve got everyone else’s expectations crushing down on me?

We file back onto the ice, and the familiar sound of blades cutting across the surface brings a momentary calm.

This, at least, I understand. The physics of ice and rubber and velocity.

The predictable paths and patterns. But as the buzzer sounds to get us back in position, I glance up into the stands and freeze.

Em is there.

She’s sliding into a seat next to Lea, looking exhausted. I realize she must have come straight from her shift, and something inside me softens. She didn’t have to come. Not after working. Not after I’ve been avoiding her. Yet here she is, and the moment she spots me, she offers a small wave.

Unexpectedly, my anxiety settles rather than escalates. Something about seeing her—knowing she made the effort despite everything—grounds me in a way I can’t explain. And as I raise my hand in acknowledgment, I feel like I can breathe again for the first time in days.

When the puck drops for the second period, I’m laser-focused. My first shift, I intercept a pass, dodge a defender, and fire a shot that misses by inches. My second shift, I set up Maine for another scoring chance that the Dartmouth goalie somehow saves.

And, as I leave the ice for a breather, I glance toward the stands and see Em watching me attentively, and something clicks into perfect alignment. Not cheering wildly like Lea, just present. Engaged. There for me, despite everything. And it makes me feel unstoppable. She waves, and I wave back.

As I sit my ass down, I’m breathing hard, and Maine is spent as well. We’ve been pushing the pace, keeping Dartmouth’s defense scrambling, and it’s working beautifully. I grab my water bottle and take a long pull, feeling the cold liquid soothe my parched throat.

When he finally catches his breath and stops sucking down water, Maine nudges me with his elbow, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “So…”

“What?” I snort, knowing that whatever comes out of his mouth next, he’s going to give me shit. Because I know that tone and that smile.

“I see your girlfriend made it.” Maine keeps his voice casual, flicking his eyes toward the stands where Em and Lea are sitting. “Nice of her to support her man.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I snap automatically, the denial shooting out with a defensiveness that betrays way more than I intended.

Maine’s eyebrows lift, his expression a clear sure, buddy that I choose to ignore. He studies my face for a moment, then breaks into a laugh. “Damn, Garcia. I was just messing with you, but now I’m thinking there’s actually something to mess with . The campus man-whore made pure…”

“Bullshit,” I mutter.

“Uh-huh.” Maine’s voice drips with skepticism. “That’s why you’ve gone as red as a virgin on prom night.” He wipes sweat from his forehead with a towel and takes another swig of water. “Also, why you keep making eyes at her every time you’re on the ice.”

“I’m not making eyes with her,” I protest, but even I can hear the weakness in my denial. “And bro, I’m literally skating, scoring, and setting up plays. When exactly am I supposedly finding time for this eye contact while I’m playing out there, genius?”

“Every. Single. Shift,” Maine says, punctuating each word with a jab of his water bottle in my direction.

“You skate past the bench, you look up to see if she’s there.

She wasn’t, until last shift, but still you looked.

Like clockwork. Like someone programmed it into your hockey hardware. Then you saw her and?—”

“Shut up,” I say, before he can finish.

He laughs, but he drops it.

To change the topic, I pull out my phone and shove it in his face, screen-first. “Look at this instead of making shit up about my love life.”

His eyes scan the text from my mom, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Scouts, huh? Your mom’s got a better intel network than the CIA.” He hands the phone back with a shrug. “Who cares? We’re playing our game, they’re seeing us at our best.”

Easy for him to say. His parents have never once mentioned the NHL around him, not even when he was accepted to our program, one of the most prestigious in the north-east of the country. Whereas my parents started planning my professional career before I could skate backward.

“I just wish she’d cool it with the constant updates,” I mutter.

“Is that why you’ve been weird lately?” Maine asks.

“I’m not being weird.”

“Sure, and I’m not incredibly handsome.” He grins. “Speaking of weird, have you noticed Mike? He’s actually being a captain again. Did you talk to him?”

I nod and follow Maine’s gaze to the other end of the bench. Mike is pointing out something to Rook, who’s soaking up the attention like a puppy being praised for not pissing on the carpet.

“Yeah, look at Rook,” I say. “Kid’s glowing—probably because no one’s ever said anything nice to him before.”

“No one should, or he’ll never shut up about it.” Maine laughs. “But seriously, whatever you said to Mike, it worked. He’s back.”

I shrug, not wanting to get into the details of our conversation. “We talked it out. He had his reasons for being a dick.”

“Well, thank fuck for that. I was getting tired of being the only one who knew what they were doing around here.” Maine’s gaze drifts back to the stands. “Oh, by the way, Dec texted. He’s setting up for the party. Said Lea’s definitely coming after the game.”

My stomach tightens. “Cool.”

“And she’s bringing Em.”

The way he says it—casual but with an undercurrent of amusement—tells me he’s watching for my reaction. I keep my face as neutral as possible, which probably means I look constipated, and the seconds of silence that pass before I respond are probably a dead giveaway.

“That’s… nice,” I manage.

Maine bursts out laughing so hard that a couple of the guys look our way, and even Coach sends a confused glare down the bench. “Oh man, look at your face!”

“Fuck off,” I mutter, which only makes him laugh harder.

“What’s the deal with you two, anyway? I’ve never seen you this twisted up about anyone.” His eyes narrow. “Wait, are you actually into her? Like, for real?”

For a moment, I consider brushing him off with a joke, but I’m too exhausted to keep pretending.

And maybe talking it out with someone less invested than Mike might help.

In one quick, quiet rush, I explain our arrangement—teaching Em about sex so she can get comfortable before she starts dating again.

As the words leave my mouth, they sound absurd, like I’m describing the plot of a bad movie rather than my life.

Hearing it laid out bare makes me realize how ridiculous the whole setup was from the start.

The mental gymnastics I did to convince myself this was just a casual arrangement… it’s laughable.

Maine’s expression shifts from amused to incredulous. “So you’re not dating, but you’re hooking up with her to teach her about sex?”

“Keep it down, asshole,” I hiss, glancing around to make sure Coach isn’t listening. “That was the agreement.”

“The agreement,” Maine repeats, deadpan. “Right. And how’s that working out for you, Professor Garcia?”

I grimace. “It’s… complicated.”

“It’s really not,” Maine says, taking another swig of water. “Your face lit up like a Christmas tree when you spotted her in the stands. You’ve been smiling at her all game. Your ‘student’ shows up to watch you play, and suddenly you’re skating like someone slipped PEDs in your water bottle.”

“She was at the last game too,” I mutter, which is possibly the worst defense I could have offered.

“Yeah, and you went super-saiyan in that one too,” Maine says. “Look, I don’t care what label you put on it, but don’t bullshit yourself.”

I stare out at the ice, watching our teammates battling along the boards.

Maine’s right, and we both know it. But hearing him lay it out so plainly makes the knot in my chest tighten.

I’ve had the same thoughts circling in my head for weeks, but having someone else voice them makes them impossible to ignore.

“Look, man,” Maine says, his voice softening slightly, “we’ve been friends since freshman year, and I’ve seen you with more women than I can count. Not once—not a single fucking time—have I seen you look at someone the way you look at her.”

I scrub a hand over my face. “I know. And it scares the shit out of me.”

“Why?” Maine looks confused. “Most people would consider that a good thing.”

“Because,” I start, then pause, trying to find the right words to convey the mess that is my head. “It complicates everything. I’ve got the team, scouts watching, my mom’s relentless NHL push, school… I don’t have room for all this… emotional shit.”

“Emotional shit,” Maine repeats with a smirk. “Very mature.”

“Fuck off.”

“Nah, I think I’ll stay right here and keep picking at this because it’s fucking hilarious watching you squirm.” He leans back slightly. “You’ve had plenty of time for casual hookups over the years. So I don’t think the issue is time or complications. I think you’re scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of how much you actually like her.” He shrugs. “Just a theory.”

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“Better figure it out,” he says. “Because she’s gonna be at the party, and you look like a guy about to have a heart attack.”

Shit.

Maine is right.

Whatever this is between us, it’s already way past the boundaries we set.

And tonight, one way or another, things have to change, because I can’t keep pretending this is just some casual arrangement anymore.

The truth is, I’m falling for Em, and I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do about it.

And that feels all the more scary than the eyes of scouts on me.