Page 126 of Practice Makes Perfect
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—reallytalked 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.”
