Page 40 of Practice Makes Perfect
Although what Iwantto say is that I haven’t slept.
Mike decided three in the morning was the perfect time to blast Metallica’s entire discography. And when that wasn’t enough, he slammed the door at six when he left, ensuring I’d be like a zombie for practice. But excuses don’t fly with Coach, and frankly, they don’t fly with me either.
“Linc! You have to keep your stick lower in anticipation of the pass!” Mike’s oh-so-helpful advice rings out from the bench. “Basic stuff, man!”
I skate to the opposite side of the rink, putting as much distance between me and Mike’s commentary as possible. Of course, after weeks of sullen silence, he chooses today to transform into the John Madden of hockey, offering color commentary on my every move.
Maine slides up beside me, voice low. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks. I feel even worse than I look.”
Maine is uncharacteristically subdued, because Mike has been on his ass as well. Everyone is walking on eggshells around Mike, but we don’t have time to talk further before Coach blows his whistle.
“Line change! First line out, second line in!” His voice drills into my skull. “Garcia, you’re staying on, and you better hope practice makes perfect.”
Great. Double shifts when I can barely keep my eyes open.
We set up for a standard offensive drill—nothing complicated. Just receive the pass, navigate between two defenders, and take the shot. I’ve done this drill approximately 5000 times since I was eight. I could do it in my sleep, which is convenient since I’m practically there anyway.
“Remember to fake left before going right!” Mike shouts as I position myself. “You telegraph too much!”
My jaw clenches so tight that I’m surprised my teeth don’t shatter. Since when does Mike—a defenseman—have opinions about my offensive strategy? Especially when his advice directly contradicts what Coach instructed me to do last week?
The puck comes my way. I receive it cleanly—finally—and head toward the defenders. I fake right, go left—the opposite of Mike’s brilliant advice—and break through. It’s just me and Rook in goal now. I shift to my backhand, lining up what should be a straightforward shot to the top corner.
“Your angle’s wrong!” Mike’s voice pierces my concentration at the exact moment I release.
The puck sails wide, missing the net entirely and bouncing off the Plexi with a sad thunk. I glance at Coach, just as his eyes flick toward Mike, then back to me, a calculation happening behind them that I can’t quite decipher. I brace for the punishment—laps, sprints, or maybe the “easy four” around campus
Instead, Coach blows his whistle three times, signaling the end of practice. “Hit the showers,” he says. “Except Garcia—my office, five minutes.”
The team files off the ice, a few guys patting my shoulder in silent support. Mike doesn’t look at me as he clomps past, his crutch tucked under his arm—he refuses to use both crutches because “it makes him look weak”—and a scowl on his face.
In the locker room, I take my time removing my skates, dreading whatever conversation awaits in Coach’s office. The guys know I’m fretting, too, because they leave me alone. Is he going to bench me? Remove me as co-captain? Tell me I need to fix my shit before scouts come to the next game?
Five minutes later, when I knock on his door, Coach is already behind his desk, reviewing practice footage. “Sit,” he says without looking up.
I lower myself into the chair across from him, fighting the urge to fidget like a kid sent to the principal’s office.
He lets out a lengthy sigh. “I asked you to have a conversation with Altman. Has that happened yet?”
“No.” The guilt slams into me, joining the exhaustion for a tag-team assault on my conscience. “I haven’t found the right moment.”
Coach’s eyes narrow. “The right moment was when I asked you.”
“He’s going through a lot?—”
“We’re all going through something.” Coach leans forward. “You think I’m not? My wife left last month, took the dog. The dog, Garcia. Who takes a man’s dog?”
I blink, momentarily thrown by this personal revelation. “I’m sorry, Coach. I didn’t know.”
“Because I don’t bring it to the ice.” He jabs a finger toward the screen, where he’s switched to old footage of Mike. “That kid was the best defenseman I’ve seen in twenty years of coaching atthe college level. A slam dunk NHL prospect. And now, after one injury, he’s what? A benchwarmer with a bad attitude?”
“I know.” And I do. The Mike on screen—focused, determined, alive—bears little resemblance to the bitter shell currently haunting our apartment.
“Talk to him before the game against Colgate later this week, because I want him helping us from the benchthisseason and back as our captainnextseason.” Coach’s tone makes it clear this isn’t a suggestion. “Fix whatever’s broken, or I will, and trust me, neither you nor Mike want me handling this.”
“Yes, Coach.”
