Page 30 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Come in, Garcia.” Coach doesn’t look up from his laptop. “Close it and sit.”
I do as instructed, closing the door behind me and then sitting in the worn chair across from his desk. The office walls are plastered with schedules, playbooks, and motivational slogans that probably came free with a subscription toCoaches Who Hate Joy Monthly.
“We need to talk about Altman,” Coach says, as he finally looks up. “And I suspect you know it.”
“Is there a problem?” I ask, trying to sound neutral, as if I haven’t watched Mike spiral into a pit of misery for months.
“You tell me.” Coach leans back in his chair. “But from what I can see, he’s brooding like a teenager who just discovered poetry.”
“He’s not that bad,” I say automatically, even though Mike’s literally said about six words tonight.
“He is, and it’s affecting the team.” Coach levels his gaze at me. “He sat on the bench tonight looking like someone shot his dog. This can’t continue.”
He’s right. Mike’s attitude has been darkening the locker room for weeks, but it hit a new low tonight. “What do you want me to do?” I ask finally.
“Talk to him.” Coach’s pen stops tapping. “Get his head out of his ass.”
I almost laugh. “I’ve been trying.”
“Try harder,” he says. “Because if he doesn’t start acting like a captain—co-captain or otherwise—I’m going to strip him of the title.”
The suggestion hits like a slap. “You can’t do that.”
“I can,” Coach says calmly. “And I will if necessary.”
“He already feels like shit about the ‘co’ part,” I argue, leaning forward. “Taking it away completely would destroy him.”
“Looks to me like he’s already hit rock bottom,” Coach counters. “Maybe he needs something to shake him out of it.”
“Or maybe it’ll push him over the edge.” I run a hand over my buzzed hair, frustration building. “Just… let me talk to him when the time is right.”
Coach studies me for a long moment, and I can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes. Finally, he nods. “Fine. But this needs to happen soon, Garcia. The team played well tonight, but I could see his attitude affecting them on the ice.”
“I’ll handle it,” I promise, even while a voice in my head screams at me for taking on yet another responsibility.
“Good. That’s all.” Coach turns back to his laptop, dismissal clear. “By the way, decent game tonight. That second goal was impressive.”
For a moment, I consider thanking him, but the compliment feels hollow next to the weight of what he’s just dumped on my shoulders. So I just nod and slip out of the office, and I’m one of the last guys into the shower by the time I’ve finally gotten the last of my sweat-soaked clothing off.
I head for the shower and groan with relief as the hot water pounds against my shoulders. I close my eyes, letting the steam envelop me, but I can’t get Coach’s words out of my head. Or my mother’s texts. Talk to Mike. There might’ve been a scout there. Fix the team. Make the NHL.
My shoulders aren’t just carrying water right now—they’re loaded down with everyone’s expectations.
I’ve never minded being the guy people count on. Growing up, I was the one my parents called when they needed help moving furniture or when the neighbor’s cat needed to be coaxed down from a tree. At school, I was always the group project leader because I’d make sure shit got done.
But this? Being responsible for not just my performance but also the mental health of a guy who barely speaks anymore? Having my mother constantly dial up the stakes of an already stressful season, with my future in the NHL on the line?
It’s a lot.
I press my palms against the shower wall, head down, and watch water circle the drain. If I had any sense, I’d tell Coach to handle Mike himself, given that’s his job and all. But I won’t. Because I need Coach’s recommendation to scouts and I feel guilt-bound to be a good friend to Mike.
So I’ll add “fix Mike” to my growing list of responsibilities, right after “win games,” “impress scouts,” “maintain GPA,” and “figure out why Em ran away from me like I was contagious.”
The water starts running cold, and I take that as my cue. I shut it off and grab my towel, drying quickly before heading back to my locker. Most of the guys have already cleared out, though Maine’s still there, looking at his phone while he waits.
He glances up when I approach. “Are you good, dude? Coach wasn’t too much of a dick?”
“Nah, standard pep talk.” The lie comes easy. No need to broadcast the situation. “Listen, about tonight…”
