Page 51 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

thirty-one

LINC

The ice whispers under my blades.

Scrape, hiss, scrape, hiss.

Each stroke burns in my quads, but I push harder—harder than I would at practice, harder than during a game. I deserve the burn, the ache, the punishment. A fitting penance for walking out on my team. For crushing Em’s heart like it was nothing, after she’d only just started to trust men again.

“ Faster ,” I mutter to myself, voice caught by the frigid air. My uniform jersey sticks to my back, sweat freezing into patches of stiff fabric. The empty community rink echoes with nothing but the sound of my skates carving patterns of self-loathing into the ice.

I didn’t even shower. I just grabbed my gear and drove, finding this deserted rink twenty miles from campus. A place where no one would look. No coaches, no teammates, no mothers waving glitter signs, no scouts watching my every move.

No Em with her hopeful eyes talking about family dinners.

The memory of her face—the confusion giving way to hurt giving way to fury giving way to despair—makes my stomach clench. I push into the turn harder, forcing the deep edge until my ankles scream in protest, but I manage to keep my feet.

I can’t do this. Us.

Four words. That’s all it took to demolish in seconds everything we’d already built and everything I’d still hoped to build with her in future. I’d watched the light drain from her eyes, that beautiful spark extinguishing because of me, because I’m a coward.

My phone buzzes against my thigh for what feels like the hundredth time. I ignore it like I have the others. Mom’s called eight times. Coach twice. Maine left three voicemails. The game would have finished an hour ago, and I’ve got no idea if we won or lost.

All I know is that Coach tried to stop me, and I told him to get fucked.

So that’s probably my NHL career gone, too.

I’ve read the texts. Lea’s have gotten increasingly creative in their threats to my physical wellbeing. The last one promised to, and I quote, “rearrange your internal organs into a modern art piece called ‘The Death of a Fuckboy’”, but there’s been nothing from Em.

Just silence.

And I haven’t been able to build up the guts to text her, either.

What would I even say?

I abandon the center of the ice, building speed along the boards. The wind of my own making burns my eyes, but I don’t slow down. Instead, my mind shifts back to the other topic dominating my thoughts for the last few hours, how my mom sent emails to Coach behind my back.

How she’d manipulated her way into getting me the co-captaincy.

How nothing I’d accomplished was really mine.

I launch into a brutal crossover, cutting hard enough that my inside edge digs a trench in the ice.

It’s a mark that I’ve made, at least, not one that I didn’t earn.

Unlike the co-captaincy. All those hours of extra practice, all the shit with Mike, the leadership I thought I was showing—none of it mattered.

I got the ‘C’ because of my mom.

The sound of the heavy rink door opening cuts through my thoughts. I don’t bother looking. Probably just the night manager coming to kick me out. I’d slipped the teenage attendant twenty bucks to let me skate after hours, but his shift might have ended by now.

I turn for another lap, but something catches my eye.

A figure standing at the boards. Big, silent, familiar.

I skid to a stop, sending a spray of ice crystals arcing through the air, because the man standing there is just about the last person on Earth I would have expected to see. My dad, standing with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, watching me with those quiet eyes.

What the hell?

For a moment, I just stare, wondering if the physical exertion has me hallucinating. My father is supposed to be back at their hotel with Mom, not standing in some random community rink miles from campus at—I glance at the clock—11:42 p.m.

I coast over to where he’s standing, chest heaving, legs trembling from exertion. “What are you doing here, dad?”

“Lincoln.” He nods once, in that economical way of his. No wasted movements, no unnecessary words. The complete opposite of Mom.

“How did you?—”

“Google Maps.” He shrugs. “Nearest ice rink.”

Of course. I may not have talked to my dad— really talked to him—in months, but he still knows me. Knows that when things get bad, I seek out the ice. Always have, ever since I was a kid. I wipe sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, taking a deep breath and shuddering with emotion and exhaustion.

“Mom send you?” I say.

“She’s worried,” he says. “Your coach, too. Whole team, from what I gather.”

Guilt crashes over me with fresh intensity. “Makes sense,” I say.

“You walked out mid-game.”

“Yeah.”

What else can I say?

I did.

No excuses.

My dad studies me for a long moment. “Want to tell me why?”

I lean against the boards. “Not really.”

He nods, accepting this. Another difference between him and Mom. She would pry, push, demand answers. Dad just… waits. The silence stretches between us, and after a minute I find myself talking anyway.

“Coach told me something about mom.” I stare down at my skates. “She emailed him after Mike got injured and told him to make me co-captain.”

I look up, expecting surprise, but Dad just looks tired and a little uncomfortable to be playing a role he’s not used to. “Ah.”

“You knew?”

He shifts his weight. “I suspected. She’s… protective of your future.”

I push away from the boards, anger flaring. “And you didn’t say anything?”

Dad glances at the ice, then back at me. “There’s a bench over there,” he says.

For a second, I consider refusing, but my legs feel like overcooked pasta. Then I nod, gliding over to the box and stepping off the ice. I drop onto the bench, unlacing my skates while Dad settles beside me with a measured exhale.

The silence between us is different from the ones with Mom. Hers demand to be filled, while his just exist, patient and undemanding. It’s both comforting and maddening.

“Your mother gets… enthusiastic,” he says finally, as I pull off my second skate. “Sometimes she crosses lines she doesn’t realize exist.”

I snort. “Enthusiastic is bringing thirty friends to a game. Emailing my coach to manipulate my hockey career is—” I search for the words. “It’s fucked up, Dad.”

He doesn’t wince at my language. “Yes,” he agrees, which startles me into looking at him. “It is.”

I hadn’t expected him to validate my anger so quickly. Dad has always been the peacemaker, the one who smooths things over when Mom goes too far. But there’s no smoothing in his tone now, just quiet acknowledgment.

“She doesn’t think of it that way,” he continues. “In her mind, she’s just helping you achieve what you want.”

“What she wants,” I correct, bitterness coating my tongue. “NHL contract. Stanley Cup. Little Lincoln Garcia bobbleheads she can gift at Christmas.”

Dad’s mouth quirks slightly. “The bobbleheads would be something.”

Despite everything, I let out a short, surprised laugh. “Not helping.”

“Sorry.” His smile fades, and he looks down at his hands.

“Why didn’t you stop her?” The question comes out harsher than I intended.

“I can’t stop your mother from being who she is.

” He says it simply, without resentment.

“I can only talk to her afterward, which I will. But that’s not really what this is about, is it?

Because, although I know you love your mother, this isn’t the first time you’ve been angry at her, and you’ve never done this , right? ”

I rub my palms against my sweaty thighs, frustrated that he can still read me so easily despite how distant we’ve been lately. “What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t have walked out on a game just because your mother sent an email.” He turns slightly to face me more directly. “There’s more.”

The urge to deflect is strong, but what’s the point? I’m already in the shit creek without a paddle. My mom manipulated my hockey career. I abandoned my team in the middle of a crucial game. I broke up with the most amazing girl I’ve ever known in the most cowardly way possible.

So I tell him everything.

About how Coach’s revelation made me question every accomplishment I’ve ever had. About how I started wondering if I really deserved the scholarship, the captaincy, the attention. About how it feels I’ve been living my life on a track my mother laid out for me…

And then I tell him about Em.

“I met this girl,” I say, my voice dropping. “She’s… different. Smart. Funny. Calls me on my bullshit. Makes me feel like—” I struggle to find the words. “Like I’m more than just a hockey player with a reputation on campus.”

Dad listens without interrupting, his eyes steady on mine.

“We were just hooking up at first,” I continue, “but then it turned into something real. At least, I thought it was real. She asked me to meet her family, and I panicked.”

“How?”

“Right after Coach told me about Mom’s email, it was like everything crashed down at once. I felt like a fraud, and I was so mad at Mom—” My voice cracks. “And then I ran into Em.”

He nods. He knows there’s more.

“I couldn’t handle the pressure of another person’s expectations right at that moment, and she kept going on about it. But I know that’s just her. She’s got ADHD, so her brain—and her mouth—just race sometimes, you know?”

Another nod. More silence.

I stare down at my hands, ashamed. “So I told her I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t do us. I just dropped the bomb, devastated her, walked away and left her standing there.”

I risk a glance at Dad’s face, expecting disappointment, but all I see is thoughtful concern.

“I keep wondering if any of it was real,” I admit. “Does Mom only love me because I’m her hockey star? Does Em only like me because I’m good in bed and she thinks I’m going pro?” The questions that have been churning in my mind finally spill out. “What happens if I’m not what they want me to be?”

Dad exhales slowly. “That’s a lot of weight to carry around, son, but it’s also a question a lot of people ask themselves every day.”