Page 73 of Practice Makes Perfect
I catch Maine’s pass at our blue line and accelerate down the boards, seeing the game differently now. The Brown defenders who had been reading me like a children’s book suddenly seem lost, anticipating plays I’m no longer making. I spot a seam and cut through it, creating space where there shouldn’t be any.
Shot. Siren. Goal.
2–1.
As the crowd erupts, Maine slaps my back as we skate to the bench. “Where the hell was that in the first period?” he says.
I shrug, unable to explain the transformation myself. My gaze drifts back to the stands where Em is now standing, jumping up and down with Lea. She doesn’t know the intricacies of hockey—hell, she probably doesn’t know most of the rules—but she’s cheering like we just won the national championship.
The next shift continues where the last one left off. My passes connect with surgical precision. My skating feels effortless. I’m not just playing hockey, I’m dictating the pace and flow of the game instead of reacting to it, and minutes later we’re back in Brown’s zone.
I win a puck battle along the boards, spin away from my defender, and find myself with open ice. The entire defensive structure of Brown seems to have collapsed, leaving me more space than I’ve had all game. And that’s when I see him.
Reynolds.
His eyes meet mine across the ice, and I accelerate directly toward him, the puck dancing on my stick as if magnetized. My split lip throbs with every breath, reminding me of what this guy did to Maine, and what he said about my team and about Mike.
The memory fuels my focus rather than distracting it.
Ten feet from Reynolds, I shift my weight left, selling the fake with my shoulders and eyes. He bites, committing his body to cut off a lane that I have no intention of taking. At the last possible moment, I pull the puck to my right, my edges digging into the ice as I change direction.
Reynolds lunges desperately, his stick flailing as I slip past him.
Now it’s just me and the goalie.
Time slows down. I can see the goalie’s weight shift, anticipating a shot to the stick side. Instead, I pull the puck backhand and lift it over his outstretched glove to the far corner of the net.
2–2.
The arena explodes with noise. My teammates mob me, shouting things I can’t decipher through the roaring in my ears and the cacophony of celebration. I raise my arms, more in relief than triumph.
The third period is mine.
There’s no other way to describe it. My body feels electric, like every cell is humming at exactly the right frequency. Plays that felt impossible in the first period now seem inevitable. The puck sticks to my stick like it’s magnetized, and time slows down enough for me to see opportunities before they materialize.
Coach might be checked out, but he’s still sharp enough to recognize when a player is on fire. He doubles my ice time, rolling me out every other shift. I’m gasping for air between plays, but somehow my legs keep driving, my lungs keep filling, my mind stays three steps ahead.
“When you’re hot, you’re hot,” Maine says during a brief break at the bench. “Whatever that fight knocked loose in your head, keep it there.”
With twelve minutes left in the third, I score again, completing my first hat trick since sophomore year. The rink transforms into a sea of flying beanies and baseball caps. Brown tries to rally, but they’ve lost their edge—we’ve stolen both their momentum and their confidence.
The rest of the period becomes a defensive showcase. We lock down our zone, blocking shots, clearing rebounds, and frustrating their forwards. Every guy on our team seems to have found his highest gear, and we suffocate Brown’s offense completely.
When the final buzzer sounds, we’ve done it.
My teammates mob me at center ice, screaming congratulations and thumping my back hard enough to leave bruises. I grin through my swollen lip, my eyes automatically searching the stands. It takes a while to find what I’m looking foramidst the celebrating mass of Pine Barren fans, but then I spot Em.
She’s still standing, clapping and smiling down at me.
When our eyes meet, her smile widens—a private expression that somehow feels meant only for me despite the thousands of people surrounding her. So, after a second, I raise my stick slightly in acknowledgment and she gives me another thumbs-up, and it feels like we’re the only two people in the arena.
The spell breaks when Rook jabs me in the ribs. “Dude, that’s a gnarly lip you got there. Makes you look like you actually know how to fight.”
“Thanks. That’s precisely the look I was going for.”
The locker room is electric with energy. Guys are shouting over each other, reliving every goal, every hit, every save. I’m bombarded with fist bumps and congratulations as I strip off my gear, my body finally registering the full extent of the beating it’s taken. My face throbs, my ribs ache, and my legs are spent.
But it’s a good kind of exhaustion.
