Page 9 of Practice Makes Perfect
“I swear he can hear me breathing from across campus,” Rook mutters.
I snort. “A deaf person could hear you breathing from across campus.”
I push through the double doors to the rink, and the familiar bite of cold air hits my lungs. Despite the heaviness in my chest about Mike, something loosens in me at the sight of the ice—smooth and white and waiting. We file onto the Ssurface, skates cutting into fresh ice, and Coach waves us to center ice.
“Gather round,” he calls, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “This is important before we get started…”
The team forms a loose circle around him, the guys sharing a few nervous glances and eye rolls. At this point, I’m certain Coach is going to announce something about Mike, because he’s nowhere to be seen, and the wait is excruciating as sticks rest across skates and breaths cloud in the frigid air.
“As you all know,” Coach begins, “Altman’s injury means he won’t be able to play for the remainder of the year.” His voice is matter-of-fact, but there’s an undercurrent of disappointment we all feel. “I’ve confirmed he’ll be a red shirt for the remainder of the season, and he’ll return next year for a full senior season.”
There are a few smiles and one cheer at that, because it gives Mike a chance.
“He’ll continue attending games and practices when his rehab schedule allows,” Coach continues. “His focus, in addition to healing and maintaining his strength, will be providing support from the bench. He has invaluable experience that we can’t afford to lose, but we also need leadership on the ice.”
My stomach drops as Coach’s gaze lands on me.
“Garcia, the coaching staff and I, along with Altman, have decided to name you co-captain for the remainder of the season.”
The announcement hits the guys like a shock wave.
“HELL YEAH!” Rook screams, punching the air with enough force to almost tip himself over.
Maine pulls me into a one-armed hug that nearly cracks my ribs. “Totally deserves this,” he announces to the team, as if I’m not standing right there.
The team erupts in a chorus of stick taps against the ice—our version of applause—and suddenly, I’m surrounded by teammates slapping my back, bumping fists, and offering congratulations. Schmidt even attempts some sort of complicated handshake, then looks wounded when I fail to complete it.
“We’ll work on that, Cap,” he says, deadly serious.
But while my body goes through the motions—nodding, smiling, bumping fists—my mind is stuck on one detail: Mike’s locker. The pristine, emptied-out locker that now makes perfect sense. He knew about this before anyone else, even before I did.
Did he recommend me? Or did Coach choose me despite him?
The weight of the ‘C’ settles on my shoulders—invisible but heavy. It’s not just a letter; it’s expectations, responsibilities, pressure. It’s a statement that Coach trusts me, and the team will follow me. And I can’t help thinking that my mother will be ecstatic (if she hasn’t already somehow found out).
But it’s more than that.
It should feel like an honor, not a burden. Yet beneath it all, there’s the nagging fear that I’m not ready—not for the responsibility, the expectations, or the inevitable comparisons to Mike.
But ready or not, here it comes.
three
EM
I don’t knowwhy people think “shooting pool” is fun. It’s basically just geometry with sticks, and the dress code is worse.
But here I am at O’Neil’s on a Saturday night, perched on a high-top stool, watching Linc utterly dominate the pool table. I’d spent twenty minutes agonizing over whether to come at all, until Lea had practically dragged me out of the room.
She’d, quite rightly, played the ‘You’ve been telling me for weeks that you want to hang out and now is your chance…’ card.
So I’d put on some jeans and a cute top, plastered on a smile and agreed to head out. But I hadn’t told her therealreason for my hesitation—the prospect of running into Lincoln Garcia, statistics class acquaintance, hockey star, notorious campus hookup guy, and the subject of atleastforty-seven highly inappropriate dreams.
But what started as a low-key crush is now a raging infatuation.
That’s because, since deciding to start dating, I’ve had no luck. I’m not sure if I’m being too picky, but few people have sparked my interest to the point where I swipe yes, and the few I did find were vetoed by Louis for various reasons. And,deep down, I know there’s a really good reason for my tepid enthusiasm.
None of those guys look as good as Linc does right now.
