Page 49 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

“Thanks to you, mostly,” I admit. “Although I’m not sure ‘not completely terrible’ is the standard we should aim for.”

“Hey, you know what Coach says?—”

“If you quote that ‘progress not perfection’ bullshit right now, I will stuff your gloves down your throat.”

Rook grins. “You’re extra grumpy tonight, Captain. Someone steal your pregame Snickers?”

Before I can answer, Coach Barrett strides into the locker room, clipboard in hand. He surveys us with the enthusiasm of a man conducting a funeral for someone he vaguely disliked. The room goes quiet.

“First period was barely adequate.” He taps his clipboard. “Brown is playing cautious. Testing us. Second period, we push. Hit harder. Move faster.”

We wait for more, but he just stands there, glancing at his notes like they might spontaneously generate actual useful information. But it won’t happen, because he’s been a shell of himself—and a shell of a coach—since his divorce.

And that’s it.

That’s the extent of our between-period strategy session.

Revolutionary coaching right there.

Coach checks his watch. “Ten minutes. Get hydrated.”

The guys exchange glances, and Maine widens his eyes at me in a silent “that’s it?” I give a tiny shrug in response, and focus on sucking down more water as the team breaks into smaller groups to talk shit and talk strategy.

“Garcia. My office.”

The locker room suddenly feels much colder, and eyes follow me and I follow him into the cramped space he calls an office, which is really just a glorified closet with hockey diagrams taped to the walls. He closes the door behind us.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the metal folding chair across from his desk.

I sit, the chair creaking under my weight. “Everything okay, Coach?”

Barrett sighs, a sound like air slowly leaking from a tire. “I’m disappointed.”

My stomach drops. “We’re tied. We’re not losing.”

“I’m not talking about the score.” He leans back, studying me with those pale, unblinking eyes. “When your mother suggested I make you co-captain?—”

“Wait.” I blink, the words not quite computing. “My mother what ?”

Coach continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “I thought it was a good opportunity. You’re a good player. And with Mike sidelined, we needed leadership.”

The rushing in my ears drowns out everything else. My mother. Suggested. She suggested I be made co-captain? Like I was some eight-year-old who needed her to talk to the teacher about putting me in the school play?

“Wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “Back up. My mother suggested it? What the hell does that mean?”

Barrett shifts in his chair, suddenly finding his clipboard fascinating. “After Mike’s injury, she sent me an email. Said that with him benched, you should step into the leadership role. That it would look good to scouts and help the rest of the team on the ice.”

Each word lands like a body-blow. “When was this?”

“End of fall-semester.”

“And you just… went along with it?” My voice comes out low and dangerous. “You let my mother make a call like that?”

Barrett frowns. “Look, I agreed with her assessment. You’re the best player I’ve got left, and I figured you’d whip the team into shape.”

“Is that what all those extra freshman practices were?” I barely recognize my own voice. “Letting me ‘whip them into shape’ while you checked out?”

His eyes narrow. “Watch your tone, Garcia.”

“My tone?” I stand up so fast the chair nearly topples. “You let my mother make roster decisions. Do you understand how fucked up that is?”

“I didn’t let her do anything. I made the decision.”

“After she suggested it!”

“What difference does it make?” He stands now too, getting in my face. “You think you don’t deserve to be co-captain? Is that what this is about?”

The laugh that escapes me is brittle. “This isn’t about whether I deserve it. This is about you letting a parent influence team decisions. My mother .”

Every moment I’ve spent doubting myself takes on an ugly new light. And worse, the pride I’d finally started to feel in doing the job well? Gone. Obliterated by the knowledge that I didn’t earn it. That my mother paved the way, like she always tries to do.

“Your mother had nothing to do with the choice, Garcia. I would have picked you anyway.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said bullshit , Coach.” My hands are shaking now, but not from fear. Rage. Pure, concentrated rage, aimed at him and my mother. “If you were going to pick me anyway, why did it take her email? Why not do it the day Mike got hurt? Why wait until she suggested it?”

His silence is answer enough.

“You’ve checked out, Coach. Ever since your seperation, you’ve been phoning it in. Missing practices. Giving us the same canned speeches that I could recite for you. Hell, half the time I’m the one running drills while you’re in here doing God knows what.”

“That’s enough.” His face has turned an impressive shade of red.

“No, I don’t think it is. We’re supposed to be a team. Team decisions are supposed to be made for the betterment of the team, not to please parents. And what about Mike? Did anyone consider what it would do to him, being demoted to ‘co-captain’ instead of captain?”

“Altman kept his title. We just needed someone on the ice?—”

“You talk about Mike like he’s broken equipment. He’s a person. A player. Your captain . Or he was, until his injury meant he wasn’t useful to you anymore.”

Barrett leans forward, jabbing a finger into my chest. “You’re out of line, Garcia.”

I knock his hand away with more force than is strictly necessary. “You know what? Maybe I am. Maybe I am completely, totally, one hundred percent out of fucking line. But at least I’m honest about it.” I take a breath, my decision crystalizing with perfect clarity. “I quit.”

His face goes slack. “What?”

“I quit. As co-captain.” The words taste like freedom. “Find someone else to do your job for you.”

“You think you can just walk away from this? There are still forty minutes of hockey to play out there.” He gestures vaguely toward the rink. “And what about your NHL prospects? You want to tell scouts you abandoned your team mid-game?”

That one lands, but I’m too far gone to care. “If a scout wants me, they’ll want me for my play, not for some bullshit title my mother arranged.”

“Garcia, think about what you’re doing.”

“I have. And you know what? I’m sick of all of it.” I hiss the words. “The pressure. My mother. Your complete absence of actual coaching.” I back toward the door. “I’m done with the ‘co’ part. I’m just a player now, so I suggest you figure out what we’re going to do this period.”

“You walk out that door and there’ll be consequences.”

“I’m the last good senior you’ve got left.” I laugh again, genuinely this time. “What are you gonna do? Make me run laps? Bench me?”

“Garcia—”

But I’m already yanking open the door, storming back into the locker room. The guys fall silent as I pass, their conversations dying mid-sentence. I feel their eyes tracking me, but I don’t slow down, don’t explain.

I’m in the tunnel before I realize I have nowhere to go. Can’t go back on the ice—not yet. Can’t go to the stands. Can’t leave the building entirely, no matter how tempting that sounds.

So I just keep walking, no destination in mind, nothing but the sound of my skate guards clacking against the concrete. I turn a corner and nearly collide with someone.

“Whoa!” Em steps back, hands up. She’s still in my jersey. Still beautiful. “I was just looking for the bathroom. Are you… okay?”

No. I’m not okay. Nothing about this is okay. But the words stick in my throat, and all I can do is stare at her, my pulse hammering in my ears.