Page 46 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

When executed properly, the drill should be smooth, almost graceful. The puck should flow up the ice like water. But although it looks good, it shouldn’t be hard to do, yet what we’re producing today resembles a toddler trying to throw spaghetti at a wall.

Nothing’s sticking.

After my demonstration with Cooper, a sophomore winger with decent hands who I’ve roped in to help me as the only non-freshman at practice today, I let the freshmen take over again. I position myself near the blue line to observe, rubbing at the tension building between my shoulder blades.

Two minutes in, and it’s already gone to shit. Martinez misses a wide-open pass. Kellerman fumbles a simple reception. Schmidt seems to have forgotten which direction we’re skating. I skid to a stop with a sigh of frustration, certain this can’t all be pre-game jitters about Brown.

“Spacing!” I bark as two of them cluster together in the neutral zone. “Find the open ice! Talk to each other!”

In the space of about twenty minutes, all my good vibes and feels from the night (and morning) with Em have evaporated, the practice going from frustrating to mind-boggling. It’s like they’ve all forgotten how to play hockey overnight.

My patience dissolves completely when Schmidt and Peterson, supposedly executing a simple cross, collide at center-ice. It’s not even a gentle bump—it’s a full-on crash, both of them sprawling flat on their backs with an echoing thud that bounces off the empty stands.

“Jesus,” I mutter, skating over as they struggle to get up. “You guys okay?”

Both nod, though Peterson looks a bit dazed.

That’s it. I’ve had enough.

“Everyone to center-ice. Now.”

They gather slowly, their breathing heavier than it should be for the minimal effort they’ve put in. I notice Kellerman swallowing repeatedly like he’s fighting back nausea. And, most telling of all, no one meets my eyes. Six pairs of skates suddenly become fascinating to their owners.

“What the hell is going on?” I demand, keeping my voice low but intense. “This is the worst practice I’ve ever seen.”

Nothing.

“Seriously,” I continue, “we’re playing Brown tomorrow. A team that, in case you’ve forgotten, we need to beat to have any shot at the playoffs.”

More silence. I’m about to really let loose when Martinez—the quietest kid on the team, a freshman defenseman who rarely speaks above a whisper—clears his throat.

“We, uh…” he starts, then stalls out.

“Spit it out,” I say. “Or you’ll be skating suicides until you do.”

The kid looks miserable. “We’re kind of hungover,” he finally admits.

I blink. “Hungover.”

Six helmeted heads nod in unison.

“All of you.”

More nodding.

“The day before a critical game.”

This time, they have the decency to look ashamed.

“Rook had a thing last night,” Peterson explains, finally finding his voice. “Just supposed to be a few beers to relax, but…”

“But you decided to go full Animal House instead,” I finish for him. “Where is Rook, anyway?”

More silence.

The answer is clear. Hungover and in bed, missing the extra practice that’s compulsory for all freshman the day before every game. I drag a hand down my face, feeling my stubble rasp against my palm.

A part of me—the captain part—wants to absolutely lose it on them. Make them skate suicides until they puke out whatever cheap beer they consumed last night.

Another part of me—the part that remembers being a freshman—understands exactly how this happened. And then there’s the part of me that just wants to get this practice over with so I can see Em.

“We’re really sorry,” Schmidt says, filling the silence, and the others mumble similar apologies. “Rook said it was team tradition.”

Of course he did. Rook, who’s been at Pine Barren for all of six months, suddenly knows all about “team traditions.” I should rip into him most of all. Seek him out. Make an example. Coach and Mike would.

But they’re not here.

So, instead, I sigh.

“Go home.”

Six pairs of eyes widen simultaneously.

“ What? ” Kellerman asks.

“Go home. Hydrate. Take some Advil. Sleep it off. And tomorrow, you’d better be ready to play the game of your lives.”

“You’re not going to make us keep practicing?” Cooper asks, sounding bewildered.

“Would that help you play better tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the point?” I gesture toward the locker room. “Go. And while you’re laying in your beds contemplating your life choices, remember that I’m being merciful. But if any of you—” I sweep my gaze across their faces, “— any of you show up to the game tomorrow less than one hundred percent…”

The threat is implied, but clear.

They don’t need to be told twice. The six of them scramble off the ice, and as I collect the pucks from around the ice, I realize I’m not even that angry.

Disappointed, sure. But not furious like I probably should be.

I actually catch myself smiling as I imagine the sorry state Rook must be in right now.

Natural consequences are sometimes the best punishment.

Besides, I’ve been in their skates. Freshman year, Declan, Mike, and I once showed up to practice after a particularly ambitious night. Coach had us skating suicides until Mike threw up in a trash can, and he had to clean it out as punishment, which meant he puked again.

Lesson learned.

But now I just want to finish up here so I can get back to Em’s dorm, where she promised to make her grandmother’s recipe for croque-monsieur that she’s been talking about.

And, as I head to the locker room, I decide letting the freshmen off easy was definitely the right call. Some things are just more important than teaching hungover teenagers a lesson about responsibility.

Like croque-monsieur. And the girl making it.