Page 72 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Are you good?” I ask Maine, who’s pushing himself up, face contorted in pain.
“Yeah,” he wheezes, clutching his ribs. “Just got the wind knocked out.”
Reynolds snorts. “Maybe if your captain wasn’t such a pussy…”
I freeze, the words striking precisely where I’m most raw.
“What did you just say?” I turn slowly to face him.
Reynolds smirks, his mouth guard making his words slightly slurred. “I said your program’s pathetic. First your star forward bails to play with paintbrushes, then yourrealcaptain can’t handle a little boo-boo.” He mimics wiping tears. “Now they’ve got you pretending to lead a team.”
Something snaps inside me—an almost audible crack like thin ice giving way.
And, before I realize what I’m doing, my gloves hit the ice with a soft thud.
This is dumb. This is so fucking dumb.
But I can’t stop myself.
I take a swing. It’s loaded with all the frustration about Mike, about Coach, about my mom’s expectations, about that scout watching my worst game of the season. It hits Reynolds on the chin, right where there’s very little protection from his helmet, but I may as well have been punching a stone statue.
Reynolds grins, dropping his gloves eagerly. “About time somebody on your team showed some balls.”
The first punch comes faster than I expect, catching me on the cheekbone. Pain explodes across my face, even as my mind again shouts at me that this is a dumb idea, but adrenaline immediately numbs it. I return with a jab to his stomach, then grab his jersey to steady myself.
The ice becomes a spinning carousel as we grapple, throwing awkward punches between attempts to maintain balance. Fighting on skates is nothing like fighting on solid ground—it’s more about leverage and not falling on your ass than actual punching technique.
I land a solid right hook to his jaw that sends vibrations up my arm. His head snaps back, but he recovers quickly, charging forward and driving his fist straight into my mouth. I taste copper immediately, and feel warm blood flowing over my tongue.
The refs are circling now, waiting for the right moment to intervene. And when Reynolds lands another blow to my ribs that makes me gasp, I fear I might drop, but I manage to pull him off-balance, causing him to stumble. As he tries to regain his footing, I connect with an uppercut that snaps his head back.
And sends him to the ice.
Finally, the linesmen move in, separating us as the crowd roars with bloodthirsty approval. The student section is on their feet, chanting something I can’t make out through the buzzing in my ears. I spit a mouthful of blood onto the ice, only now becoming aware of the throbbing in my lip.
“Worth it?” Maine asks as I’m escorted to the penalty box.
I glance at Reynolds being led away, his nose bleeding and the smirk gone.
“Absolutely,” I say through swollen lips.
As I settle into the penalty box, I scan the crowd reflexively. The scout is still there, writing furiously in his notebook. Great. Either I’ve completely tanked my prospects, or he’s impressed by my willingness to defend a teammate. Who the fuck knows, and at this point, I’m not sure I care.
But then I notice something else.
Em.
She’s sitting in the middle of the student section, next to Lea and Declan, wearing my jersey—my number clearly visible even from this distance. And she looks as concerned as hell, her eyesstaying on me even as the game continues and the crowd forgets the gladiator who just earned himself four in the box.
A weird feeling spreads through my chest, warm and electric at once. It’s like someone’s switched on a light in a room I didn’t realize was dark. She’s here. Watching me play. Wearing my number. And, as if on cue, she raises her hand in a thumbs up, the gesture so dorky and sweet that I can’t help but return it.
And my split lip stings as I smile.
Thoughts of her consume me for the next four minutes, even though I still warn myself that what we have is a friendship and an arrangement, nothing more. Yet even when the penalty clock ticks down to zero, I barely notice, and it’s only when Coach screams at me that I snap out of it and hit the ice again.
As I return to the ice, I again find Em’s face in the crowd. She’s leaned forward in her seat, totally focused on the game—on me—and something about that steadies me. It’s like finding solid ground after being lost at sea. And my body, which felt leaden just minutes ago, suddenly remembers how to move.
The puck drops, and this time, it’s like my brain is three steps ahead of the play. I anticipate the Brown center’s move before he makes it, cutting off his passing lane and forcing him to dump the puck into our zone. I chase it down, feeling lighter with each stride.
