Page 114 of Practice Makes Perfect
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 forallfreshman 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 shouldrip 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?”Cooperasks, sounding bewildered.
“Would that help you play better tomorrow?”
