Page 119 of Practice Makes Perfect
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 tenminutes. “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 wordsco-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.
Pleasedon’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.
