Page 71 of Practice Makes Perfect
Coach approaches me. “Your co-captain decided to sit this one out?”
“Looks that way,” I say, not meeting his eyes.
“That talk with him went well, then?” His tone tells me he knows the answer.
I bite back a sigh. “I tried.”
“Try harder.” He blows his whistle, signaling the team to gather around.
The comment stings, especially coming from a guy who’s mentally checked out since his breakup. For the last month orso, Coach’s enthusiasm for his job ranges somewhere between filing taxes and watching paint dry, and it’s putting a lot of extra pressure on me.
“All right,” he calls, his voice barely rising above conversational level. “Brown’s defense has been solid this season, but they’ve got a habit of collapsing too deep. Cycle the puck. Open up the shooting lanes. And let’s keep things tight when they’ve got it. And Garcia, I’m going to need more from you tonight.”
I nod, but as the huddle breaks, I struggle to force down the resentment. His speech was about as inspirational as flat beer, and it’s clear he’s going through the motions. But it makes the weight of expectation on my shoulders even heavier, because now the guys know he’s singling me out.
Hell, why not, right?
With Declan gone, Mike absent, and Coach sleepwalking through the season, I’m carrying this team alone. Maine is good for a laugh, but he’s not exactly leadership material, and apart from him there’s Rook—a pretty good goalie, but a freshman and a total joker—and a bunch of beige.
My gaze drifts up to the stands, zeroing in on exactly what I don’t want to see—a man in a charcoal suit holding a notepad, sitting exactly where Mom said the scout would be. He’s got that impassive hockey scout face, as he watches the game and occasionally writes things down.
Great. Perfect timing for my internal meltdown and Mike’s disappearing act.
The buzzer ends warmups, and the student section erupts as we get into position for the opening face off. The puck drops, and immediately I know something’s off. My legs feel heavy, my timing’s wrong, and my usual instincts seem to have taken the night off along with Mike.
My first pass goes nowhere near Maine, sliding to a Brown defender who starts a counterattack. I scramble back into a defensive position, but not quickly enough. Brown’s forward—some guy with a stupid mustache and annoyingly perfect stick-handling—dekes past me like I’m wearing cement skates.
Shot. Score.
Just like that, a minute in, we’re down 1–0.
The next shift is even worse. I get the puck at the point, try to work it along the boards, but telegraph my pass so obviously a blind penguin could have intercepted it. The Brown winger picks it off, beats me to the outside, and suddenly he’s going in alone on Rook.
Shot. Score. 2–0.
“What the fuck was that, Garcia?” Coach’s voice finally shows some emotion—disappointment wrapped in irritation.
I have no answer, so I just pretend I don’t hear him or notice the sideways glances of my teammates. And, suddenly, Mike’s words from the other night replay in my head:“Let’s be real—you’ve spent the last three years being mediocre, Linc.”
Without meaning to, I glance at the scout in the stands, who’s scribbling something in his notebook. I’d love to know what he’s writing, but deep down I know. Because by the end of the first period, we’re down 2–0, and I’ve just played twenty minutes of hockey that would embarrass a beer league substitute.
The intermission is a special kind of hell. Coach gives us a lackluster speech that basically amounts to “play better,” while the guys avoid eye contact with me. I sit in my stall, staring at my skates like they might explain why my hockey skills apparently got kidnapped overnight.
It doesn’t help that Mike’s empty locker is right there, a constant reminder of how I’ve failed as co-captain. I haven’t just failed to bring him back into the fold, I’ve pushed him awayentirely, and the other guys are clearly rattled as well, looking at me for answers and finding none.
But before we can come up with any solution, the buzzer sounds for the second period, and we file back onto the ice.
The second period starts no better than the first. My passes still feel off, like I’m trying to thread needles while wearing oven mitts. And, like predators, the Brown players sense my hesitation and capitalize, pressuring me every time the puck comes my way.
Midway through the period, Maine manages to strip the puck from a Brown forward and flips it ahead to me. For one glorious moment, it feels like everything clicks back into place. The ice opens up, and I’ve got a clear lane down the right side.
Then Brown’s star defenseman, Reynolds, appears in my peripheral vision. Six-foot-four of arrogance and a mean streak that would scare off a rattlesnake. Mike had had a run-in with him last season and came off second best, and Mike is a hell of a lot bigger than me, to say the least.
But what happens next unfolds in slow motion.
Maine, following the play, skates full-speed into the trap. Reynolds abandons me, pivots, and drives his shoulder directly into Maine’s chest, sending him flying into the boards with a sickening crack. The sound echoes through the arena, momentarily silencing the crowd before outraged shouts erupt from our fans.
Even as my shot on goal is saved by the Brown goalie, Maine crumples to the ice, and even from several feet away, I can see he’s struggling to breathe. I forget the puck, skate over immediately, rage building as Reynolds hovers nearby. The ref blows the whistle, signaling a penalty, but that’s not good enough for me.
