Page 120 of Practice Makes Perfect
With her watching, I can do anything—score goals, win games, survive my mother’s glitter signs. Well, maybe not that last one, but I can at least keep a straight face when it appears in the stands. And, most of all, I can look forward to what comes after the game.
Everything okay?” Maine asks when I reenter the locker room.
“Yeah.” I sit back down and start untying my laces yet again. “Fine.”
The buzzer wails, signaling the end of the first period. My breath comes in hot, heavy bursts. The scoreboard reads 1-1—not terrible, but not the lead we should have by now. My skates carve little crescents in the ice as I make my way toward the tunnel.
The crowd noise fades to a dull roar behind me as I search the stands. My mom’s glittery poster might as well be a spotlight, but I deliberately avoid looking at it, searching instead for—there.
Em.
She’s wearing my jersey, and something about seeing her in it hits me square in the chest every time. Our eyes meet across the rink, and I manage a tired smile. She returns it with one that’s bright enough to power the scoreboard.
God, she’s beautiful. And I’m playing mediocre hockey at best.
I duck into the tunnel, the temperature change hitting me like a wall. Sweat beads under my pads and Maine slaps my shoulder as he passes, mumbling something about the Brown defenseman he wants to knock out.
In the locker room, I drop onto the bench and grab my water bottle, sucking down half of it in one go. My muscles ache with the familiar burn of exertion, but there’s an edge to it tonight. I’m not playing my best. Not even close.
This would be easier with Mike on the ice. Declan, too. The thought comes with a little flare of resentment before I canstop it. But at least Mike isfinallydoing his job as co-captain from the bench, calling out plays and keeping the younger guys focused.
And, if nothing else, one of those young guys is having a hell of a game.
Rook plops down next to me, yanking off his helmet. His hair stands up in sweaty spikes, and he’s breathing hard. “That number twenty-four is a fucking nightmare,” he says. “Did you see that shot he took in the first minute? Nearly took my head off.”
“Good thing your reflexes haven’t been completely destroyed by video games,” I reply. “Or benders the night before practice…”
“Ha. Funny.” He squirts water into his mouth. “We’re tied, at least. Not getting our asses handed to us like we probably should be.”
“Thanks to you, mostly,” I admit. “Although I’m not sure ‘not completely terrible’ is the standard we should aim for.”
“Hey, you know what Coach says?—”
“If you quote that ‘progress not perfection’ bullshit right now, I will stuff your gloves down your throat.”
Rook grins. “You’re extra grumpy tonight, Captain. Someone steal your pregame Snickers?”
Before I can answer, Coach Barrett strides into the locker room, clipboard in hand. He surveys us with the enthusiasm of a man conducting a funeral for someone he vaguely disliked. The room goes quiet.
“First period was barely adequate.” He taps his clipboard. “Brown is playing cautious. Testing us. Second period, we push. Hit harder. Move faster.”
We wait for more, but he just stands there, glancing at his notes like they might spontaneously generate actual usefulinformation. But it won’t happen, because he’s been a shell of himself—and a shell of a coach—since his divorce.
And that’s it.
That’s the extent of our between-period strategy session.
Revolutionary coaching right there.
Coach checks his watch. “Ten minutes. Get hydrated.”
The guys exchange glances, and Maine widens his eyes at me in a silent “that’s it?” I give a tiny shrug in response, and focus on sucking down more water as the team breaks into smaller groups to talk shit and talk strategy.
“Garcia. My office.”
The locker room suddenly feels much colder, and eyes follow me and I follow him into the cramped space he calls an office, which is really just a glorified closet with hockey diagrams taped to the walls. He closes the door behind us.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the metal folding chair across from his desk.
