Page 122 of Practice Makes Perfect
“You talk about Mike like he’s broken equipment. He’s a person. A player. Yourcaptain. 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 amcompletely, 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 suggestyoufigure 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.
thirty
EM
I practically runinto the wall of muscle that is Lincoln Garcia.
One minute I’m walking back from the bathroom, still annoyed at myself for missing what was apparently a fantastic save by Rook—as everyone in the ladies’ room kept exclaiming—and the next, I’m face-to-face with my boyfriend, who looks like he might spontaneously combust.
“Linc!” My face automatically breaks into a smile. “I?—”
The words die in my throat as I register his expression. His jaw is clenched so tight I swear I can hear his teeth grinding. Eyes blazing, shoulders rigid—I’ve never seen him look this way. If anger were visible, the air around him would be crackling with red lightning.
“What’s wrong, Linc?” My smile evaporates faster than spilled vodka at a frat party. “Talk to me…”
“Coach,” he mutters, gaze fixed somewhere beyond my left shoulder. “Just had a talk with Coach Barrett.”
I wait for him to continue, but nothing follows. Just that muscle in his jaw jumping like it’s trying to escape his face. And, as I watch him fight a battle in his own head every bit as fierce asthe one on the ice, a war breaks out in my own mind about how to handle it.
Say something. Anything. He always knows what to say when you’re upset.
“Bad talk?” I venture, which—way to state the obvious, Em.
Linc makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so hollow. “Yeah…”
This is weird. I’ve already figured out that when Linc is upset, he talks. He processes out loud, paces, gestures with those expressive hands. Even the night he came to my dorm unannounced… he’d been upset, but open. But this silent, statue-like version of him is completely foreign to me.
