Page 4 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

“No, you sent me a bunch of messages—seventeen, to be exact—of all the girls you’d hooked up with,” I deadpan. “I was busy doing literally anything else.”

“I’m expanding my photography repertoire,” Maine huffs. “Some of us have to chase hard to match your reputation…”

I roll my eyes, because yet again the talk of me being a campus sexual hotshot has spread, but then I grin. “You can ask your mom all about my reput?—”

Before I can finish my joke, a war cry sounds from across the room. I have about half a second to prepare before Rook launches himself at me, hooking an arm around my neck with the enthusiasm of a Labrador who just found out about tennis balls.

“LIIIIIINC!” he screams directly into my ear.

“Jesus, Rook. Inside voice,” I groan, extracting myself from his headlock. Our freshman goalie has exactly two volume settings: loud and what-the-fuck-was-that-an-air-raid-siren? Today he’s on the higher end of the spectrum, practically vibrating with energy.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “I’m just pumped to get back on the ice, you know?”

“Sure,” I say, looking around the locker room at the rest of the guys.

They’re all here—well, most of them. Cooper’s explaining something to Schmidt. Kellerman’s taping his stick with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. Martinez is sprawled on the bench, already in his leg pads, texting with the speed and intensity of someone trying to prevent a nuclear launch.

But something’s off.

The energy is different.

It’s not just that Declan’s missing—his massive presence will be hard to replace—but more so like the room is holding its breath. The season’s halfway done, we’re in third place, and our captain’s ankle is more screws than bone. Nobody’s saying it out loud, but we’re all thinking the same thing.

How the hell do we make this work?

I give the guys a nod, acknowledging their greetings as I head to my locker. The walk feels longer than it should. The space next to mine belongs to Mike. And it has ever since freshman year, when we ended up side by side by coincidence.

Four years of this exact routine, and today it just feels wrong.

Mike’s locker is never neat. It’s the running joke—team captain can’t find his jock strap most days.

His space is usually a disaster zone of protein bar wrappers, random socks missing their mates, skate laces tangled like a cat got to them, and his stick perpetually threatening to fall out and brain someone.

But today?

His space looks like an equipment catalog photo. Everything’s folded with military precision. His skates rest on top, blades removed and meticulously cleaned, and his stick collection, usually a chaotic pile, stands orderly in the corner. There’s no dirty clothes, half-empty water bottles…

“When did he Marie Kondo his locker?” I ask Maine, who’s changing into practice gear nearby.

Maine glances over, long enough to register the anomaly, then shrugs. “No idea. Didn’t even notice.”

Though Mike is redshirting the remainder of his senior year with plans to return next season, he’ll still be integral to the team as our captain. So why has he packed up his locker to look like he’s done for the year, and why is he not here today?

Before I can contemplate Mike’s unnaturally clean locker any longer, the door that connects the locker room to the coach’s office bangs open, and Coach Barrett’s head pops out, thick neck straining against his collar like a bulldog trying to escape its leash.

“Five minutes to ice!” he barks. His gaze sweeps the room, landing on Rook, who’s currently demonstrating what appears to be an interpretive dance about his Christmas break hookups. “And for the love of God, Fitzgerald, shut the hell up unless you want to run the easy four after practice.”

The “easy four” is Coach’s newest torture device—a brutal four-mile loop around campus he “discovered” during winter break.

The path includes the steep hill behind the science building that’s practically vertical and the muddy trail through the woods where students often break ankles. Nothing about it is easy.

Rook immediately clamps his mouth shut and gives Coach a thumbs up.

“Wise choice,” Coach grunts before his head disappears, the door slamming.

“I swear he can hear me breathing from across campus,” Rook mutters.

I snort. “A deaf person could hear you breathing from across campus.”

I push through the double doors to the rink, and the familiar bite of cold air hits my lungs.

Despite the heaviness in my chest about Mike, something loosens in me at the sight of the ice—smooth and white and waiting.

We file onto the Ssurface, skates cutting into fresh ice, and Coach waves us to center ice.

“Gather round,” he calls, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “This is important before we get started…”

The team forms a loose circle around him, the guys sharing a few nervous glances and eye rolls. At this point, I’m certain Coach is going to announce something about Mike, because he’s nowhere to be seen, and the wait is excruciating as sticks rest across skates and breaths cloud in the frigid air.

“As you all know,” Coach begins, “Altman’s injury means he won’t be able to play for the remainder of the year.

” His voice is matter-of-fact, but there’s an undercurrent of disappointment we all feel.

“I’ve confirmed he’ll be a red shirt for the remainder of the season, and he’ll return next year for a full senior season. ”

There are a few smiles and one cheer at that, because it gives Mike a chance.

“He’ll continue attending games and practices when his rehab schedule allows,” Coach continues.

“His focus, in addition to healing and maintaining his strength, will be providing support from the bench. He has invaluable experience that we can’t afford to lose, but we also need leadership on the ice. ”

My stomach drops as Coach’s gaze lands on me.

“Garcia, the coaching staff and I, along with Altman, have decided to name you co-captain for the remainder of the season.”

The announcement hits the guys like a shock wave.

“HELL YEAH!” Rook screams, punching the air with enough force to almost tip himself over.

Maine pulls me into a one-armed hug that nearly cracks my ribs. “Totally deserves this,” he announces to the team, as if I’m not standing right there.

The team erupts in a chorus of stick taps against the ice—our version of applause—and suddenly, I’m surrounded by teammates slapping my back, bumping fists, and offering congratulations. Schmidt even attempts some sort of complicated handshake, then looks wounded when I fail to complete it.

“We’ll work on that, Cap,” he says, deadly serious.

But while my body goes through the motions—nodding, smiling, bumping fists—my mind is stuck on one detail: Mike’s locker. The pristine, emptied-out locker that now makes perfect sense. He knew about this before anyone else, even before I did.

Did he recommend me? Or did Coach choose me despite him?

The weight of the ‘C’ settles on my shoulders—invisible but heavy.

It’s not just a letter; it’s expectations, responsibilities, pressure.

It’s a statement that Coach trusts me, and the team will follow me.

And I can’t help thinking that my mother will be ecstatic (if she hasn’t already somehow found out).

But it’s more than that.

It should feel like an honor, not a burden. Yet beneath it all, there’s the nagging fear that I’m not ready—not for the responsibility, the expectations, or the inevitable comparisons to Mike.

But ready or not, here it comes.