Page 48 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)
twenty-nine
LINC
I yank the laces through the eyelets of my skates for what must be the fourteenth or fifteenth time, twisting them with enough force to make my fingers ache. Still not tight enough. Too loose on the left foot. The pressure needs to be even—exactly even —because pre-game superstitions are a bitch.
“What’s wrong with your laces, bro?” Maine asks, already suited up and leaning against his locker.
“They’re conspiring against me.” I pull them harder, the thin cord biting into my palms. “Secret plan to make me blow the game.”
“Yeah, that’s definitely the determining factor in beating Brown.” He snorts. “Not, you know, actual skill or teamwork.”
“Or goals and saves,” Rook says from nearby, but then shuts up when I glare at him. “Yeah, okay, you’re still pissed at me…”
I grunt in response, focusing on getting the tension perfect. I’ve been off all day—sleep-deprived, irritable, and now my fucking laces are betraying me. Classic pre-Brown jitters, amplified by about a thousand since Coach’s “pep talk” earlier mentioned scouts might be in the stands.
The locker room door swings open, and Simon calls out. “Yo, Garcia,” he says. “Your parents are outside. Your mom’s asking for you.”
My fingers freeze mid-pull and I close my eyes. “I already had lunch with them. Isn’t that enough family bonding for one day?”
Maine pats me on the back. “Your mom seemed pretty amped when I saw her earlier. She said something about needing to see you before the big game.”
Of course she does. Mom probably has another visualization exercise for me.
Or worse, more “tips” she’s gleaned from watching professional games that have absolutely nothing to do with college-level play.
At lunch, Dad noticed how her constant hockey talk was making my jaw clench and changed the subject.
“Fine.” I stand up, my skates still feeling wrong—too tight on the right, too loose on the left. “If I’m not back in five minutes, send a search party.”
Maine laughs as I stomp toward the door, narrowly avoiding a collision with Rook, who’s been keeping his head down since his party derailed the practice with the freshman the other day. He mumbles something that might be an apology as I push past him.
The hallway outside the locker room is eerily quiet compared to the usual pre-game chaos. Most students haven’t arrived yet—we’re still a good forty minutes from start time—but my parents are punctual to the point of absurdity for anything hockey-related.
Mom spots me immediately, her face lighting up like I’m six years old and she’s watching my first time on the ice. She’s wearing what I’ve come to think of as her “hockey mom uniform”—Pine Barren Hockey sweatshirt with my number on the back, and she’s practically vibrating with excitement.
Dad stands beside her, looking simultaneously proud and slightly embarrassed, like he knows they’re too early and too enthusiastic but has long since given up trying to modulate Mom’s hockey fervor. I don’t blame him, deep down, because my mom is a hurricane of energy that isn’t easily channelled.
“Lincoln!” Mom rushes forward, pulling me into a hug despite my full gear. “We wanted to wish you good luck before you get too focused on warm-ups!”
“Thanks, Mom.” I accept the hug stiffly, the bulky shoulder pads making it awkward. “But I really need to get back soon.”
“Oh, of course, of course!” She steps back, but keeps hold of my arms, examining me like she’s checking my equipment herself.
“Just remember what I said—their right defenseman always shifts his weight to his left foot before he commits to a check. If you notice that, you can fake left and break right.”
I nod mechanically, the way I’ve been nodding at her hockey advice since high school, even when she has no idea what she’s talking about. Over her shoulder, Dad gives me an apologetic half-smile and a small shrug that says what’re ya gonna do?
And that’s what gets me. That passive acceptance.
Would it kill him to step in occasionally?
To say, “Linda, maybe Linc’s coach has already covered strategy”?
But he never does, except for changing the topic.
He just lets her steamroll right over me, probably thinking it’s easier to just let her enthusiasm run its course.
“Thanks, Mom.” The words taste like cardboard in my mouth.
“And remember your breathing techniques before face-offs.”
“Got it.”
“And make sure you stay hydrated! Your left calf has been cramping.”
“That was last year, Mom, but yeah, I remember.” I’m fighting to keep my tone even. If I push back, I’ll look like an ungrateful asshole. If I don’t, this will go on for another ten minutes. “Look, I really need to get back to the guys now that I’m captain…”
“Of course!” She smiles. “Also?—”
“Linda,” Dad finally interjects, “Linc’s got to finish getting ready.”
Thank you, Dad. Only about five minutes too late, but I’ll take it.
“Of course.” She squeezes my arms again. “We’re so proud of you, co-captain.”
Something in my chest tightens at the words co-captain . I’ve adjusted to the role over the past weeks, especially since Mike and I sorted our shit out, but there’s still a lingering sense of unease. Like I didn’t quite earn it. Like I’m just filling in because Mike got injured.
“Thanks. I should get back to?—”
Mom’s eyes suddenly widen with excitement. “Oh! Before you go—” She swings her backpack off her shoulder and starts rummaging through it.
Please don’t be what I think it is.
It’s exactly what I think it is.
She pulls out a folded poster board that, even before she unfurls it, I can see is covered in glitter.
My stomach sinks as she proudly displays a sign that reads: “GARCIA: SCORES GOALS & HEARTS!” in giant sparkly letters, complete with little puck drawings that I’m pretty sure are supposed to have hearts in them.
“For good luck!” She beams at me. “I’ll be holding it up every time you’re on the ice!”
Dad catches my expression and finally steps in. “Linda, maybe save it for when the game actually starts?”
“But—”
“Alright, alright. You go get ready, honey. We’ll be cheering for you!”
“Thanks. I’ll see you after.” I turn to head back, hoping my face isn’t betraying how mortified I feel.
“We love you!” Mom calls after me.
“Love you too,” I mutter, not loud enough for her to hear.
As I push back through the doors toward the locker room, movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention. I glance toward the spectator entrance and feel my entire body relax instantly. Em is walking into the rink with Lea, their heads bent together in conversation.
She’s bundled in a thick sweater, her dark hair falling in waves around her face, and when she looks up and spots me a smile breaks across her face. She waves and, suddenly, the glitter sign, the loose laces, and all the pre-game tension feels manageable.
My hand rises automatically to wave back.
Em doesn’t know anything about hockey. She doesn’t care if I fake left or break right. She doesn’t have any “tips” from watching professional games and talking on Reddit. She just knows me—Linc. Not #14, not the co-captain, not the NHL prospect.
Just me.
And that might be the most exhilarating thing about her.
My mom calls something from behind me—probably remembering one more critical piece of hockey wisdom—but I pretend not to hear. I keep my eyes on Em for another second before turning back toward the locker room, a new determination settling into my bones.
With her watching, I can do anything—score goals, win games, survive my mother’s glitter signs. Well, maybe not that last one, but I can at least keep a straight face when it appears in the stands. And, most of all, I can look forward to what comes after the game.
Everything okay?” Maine asks when I reenter the locker room.
“Yeah.” I sit back down and start untying my laces yet again. “Fine.”
The buzzer wails, signaling the end of the first period. My breath comes in hot, heavy bursts. The scoreboard reads 1-1—not terrible, but not the lead we should have by now. My skates carve little crescents in the ice as I make my way toward the tunnel.
The crowd noise fades to a dull roar behind me as I search the stands. My mom’s glittery poster might as well be a spotlight, but I deliberately avoid looking at it, searching instead for—there.
Em.
She’s wearing my jersey, and something about seeing her in it hits me square in the chest every time. Our eyes meet across the rink, and I manage a tired smile. She returns it with one that’s bright enough to power the scoreboard.
God, she’s beautiful. And I’m playing mediocre hockey at best.
I duck into the tunnel, the temperature change hitting me like a wall. Sweat beads under my pads and Maine slaps my shoulder as he passes, mumbling something about the Brown defenseman he wants to knock out.
In the locker room, I drop onto the bench and grab my water bottle, sucking down half of it in one go. My muscles ache with the familiar burn of exertion, but there’s an edge to it tonight. I’m not playing my best. Not even close.
This would be easier with Mike on the ice. Declan, too. The thought comes with a little flare of resentment before I can stop it. But at least Mike is finally doing his job as co-captain from the bench, calling out plays and keeping the younger guys focused.
And, if nothing else, one of those young guys is having a hell of a game.
Rook plops down next to me, yanking off his helmet. His hair stands up in sweaty spikes, and he’s breathing hard. “That number twenty-four is a fucking nightmare,” he says. “Did you see that shot he took in the first minute? Nearly took my head off.”
“Good thing your reflexes haven’t been completely destroyed by video games,” I reply. “Or benders the night before practice…”
“Ha. Funny.” He squirts water into his mouth. “We’re tied, at least. Not getting our asses handed to us like we probably should be.”