Page 113 of Practice Makes Perfect
“That’s it,” I encourage, my voice a rough whisper. “Come with me.”
Outside, I hear Mike moving around in the kitchen, the clink of plates, the rustle of paper bags. The knowledge that he could knock at any moment adds a forbidden thrill, making everything more intense.
Em’s eyes lock with mine, her expression a mix of pleasure and disbelief as we move together. I can feel her getting close—her inner muscles fluttering around me, her breathing shallow and quick.
“I can’t—” she starts, but I cut her off with a kiss.
“You can,” I murmur against her lips. “Let go.”
The tension in my own body builds to a breaking point. I’m right on the edge, hovering at that exquisite moment before release. Em’s thighs tighten around my waist, her body trembling beneath mine.
“Now,” I command, driving deeper inside her.
She shatters around me, her mouth opening in a silent cry. The sight and feel of her orgasm triggers my own, and I bury my face in her neck to muffle my groan, our bodies pulsing in unison.
For a moment, we lie there, shaking and breathless. Then a sharp knock on the door makes us both jump. Em claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. I press my forehead against hers, grinning.
“Food’s getting cold!” Mike calls out.
“Coming!” I call back, then whisper to Em, “Again, apparently.”
She smacks my shoulder, but her eyes dance with mischief and satisfaction.
The puck shoots wide again—about five feet to the left of where it should land. I shake my head, skating over to retrieve it from the boards. It bounces off my stick with a hollow clack as I scoop it up.
“Kellerman!” I call out to the freshman second-line defenseman who made the sorry-ass pass. “Who were you aiming for there, the hot dog vendor?”
Kellerman flushes, the pink visible even beneath his practice helmet. “Sorry, Captain.”
I reset the drill, gathering the guys at center-ice, hoping like hell they snap out of… whateverthisis before the Brown game tomorrow. We’ve been at this for forty-five minutes already, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m trying to help build the skills of the freshman on a college hockey team or herding cats.
“Listen up,” I say, tapping my stick against the ice to get everyone’s attention. “We’re running a simple breakout drill. The defenseman passes to the wing, the wing carries through neutral zone, drops to the center, center feeds the far wing for the shot. Basic hockey. Been doing it since you were twelve.”
Six faces stare back at me, their expressions ranging from blank to vaguely nauseated. I don’t know what’s happening here. These are solid players—Coach wouldn’t have recruited them otherwise—but today they’re skating like they’ve got cinderblocks tied to their ankles.
“Let’s go again,” I say, deciding to demonstrate. “Cooper, you and I will run it once, then you guys take over.”
When executed properly, the drill should be smooth, almost graceful. The puck should flow up the ice like water. But although itlooksgood, it shouldn’t be hard to do, yet what we’re producing today resembles a toddler trying to throw spaghetti at a wall.
Nothing’s sticking.
After my demonstration with Cooper, a sophomore winger with decent hands who I’ve roped in to help me as the only non-freshman at practice today, I let the freshmen take over again. I position myself near the blue line to observe, rubbing at the tension building between my shoulder blades.
Two minutes in, and it’s already gone to shit. Martinez misses a wide-open pass. Kellerman fumbles a simple reception. Schmidt seems to have forgotten which direction we’re skating.I skid to a stop with a sigh of frustration, certain this can’t all be pre-game jitters about Brown.
“Spacing!” I bark as two of them cluster together in the neutral zone. “Find the open ice! Talk to each other!”
In the space of about twenty minutes, all my good vibes and feels from the night (and morning) with Em have evaporated, the practice going from frustrating to mind-boggling. It’s like they’ve all forgotten how to play hockey overnight.
My patience dissolves completely when Schmidt and Peterson, supposedly executing a simple cross, collide at center-ice. It’s not even a gentle bump—it’s a full-on crash, both of them sprawling flat on their backs with an echoing thud that bounces off the empty stands.
“Jesus,” I mutter, skating over as they struggle to get up. “You guys okay?”
Both nod, though Peterson looks a bit dazed.
That’s it. I’ve had enough.
“Everyone to center-ice. Now.”
