Page 88 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Sick assist,” Rook says, enjoying a rare moment on the bench as Coach bloods a new goalie.
“Sick save earlier,” I reply, referencing the ridiculous glove save he made five minutes ago that had the entire arena on their feet.
As I gulp water, my phone buzzes from beneath my spot on the bench. We’re nottechnicallyallowed to have phones on the bench, but Coach turns a blind eye to the seniors doing it. Normally, I’d ignore it until after the game, but we’re seconds from the end of the period, so I sneak a quick look.
It’s my mom:
Two scouts in the stands tonight! Read it on the Hockey Prospects sub-Reddit. One Detroit, one Seattle. Show them what my boy can do!!!
“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving the phone back into my pocket.
“What’s up?” Maine asks, sliding in beside me.
“Nothing.” I force a smile. “Just my mom with her usual pep talk.”
What I don’t say:
Thanks, Mom, because I needed more pressure on a night when I’m already playing out of my mind while dreading the inevitable post-game confrontation with the girl I’m trying not to fall for.
Perfect timing. Really.
The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the first period. We file into the locker room, where Coach gives us his version of a motivational speech, which involves listing all the ways we could still screw this up while occasionally acknowledging that we “aren’t completely embarrassing” tonight.
I barely register the speech. Something about maintaining pressure, not letting Dartmouth back in the game, and—in a shocking turn of events—praising Maine’s goal. Coach using the word “decent” is practically a standing ovation by his standards.
My thoughts keep circling back to the fact that in a few hours, I’ll be at Declan’s party, in the same room as Em. Lea texted Mike earlier, asking him to tell me that she was bringing Em along. And, after canceling our last lesson with the world’s lamest excuse, I’ve reached the end of my avoidance tactic runway.
Something has to give tonight. Our arrangement can’t continue in this weird limbo where I’m too freaked out by my growing feelings to face her, but too attached to officially end things. And, judging by the look in her eyes when she came for me, I think she wants?—
“Garcia!”
I jolt, suddenly aware that Coach has been talking to me.
“Yes, Coach?”
“Did you hear a single word I said?” His usual scowl deepens.
“Sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again.”
The time for the second period approaches too quickly. I tighten my skates, adjust my gear, and try to focus on the game rather than everything else swirling in my head. Mom’s text has me pissed. I know she thinks she’s helping, but all it does is make me hyperaware of every move, and the crowd.
Maine slaps me on the back as we return to the ice. “Let’s fucking go!”
I nod, attempting to match his enthusiasm, but internally I’m a mess.
The scouts in the stand.
The prospect of seeing Em tonight.
Anger at my Mom.
The pressure feels like it’s compressing my chest, making each breath shorter than the last. Mike said I was overthinking things, but when exactly am I supposed to find time to work through my feelings when I’ve got everyone else’s expectations crushing down on me?
We file back onto the ice, and the familiar sound of blades cutting across the surface brings a momentary calm. This, at least, I understand. The physics of ice and rubber and velocity. The predictable paths and patterns. But as the buzzer sounds to get us back in position, I glance up into the stands and freeze.
Em is there.
She’s sliding into a seat next to Lea, looking exhausted. I realize she must have come straight from her shift, and something inside me softens. She didn’t have to come. Not after working. Not after I’ve been avoiding her. Yet here she is, and the moment she spots me, she offers a small wave.
