Page 8 of Practice Makes Perfect
I push through the locker room door, and the familiar wall of sounds and smells washes over me. Semester break’s over, and the campus is breathing again. The guys’ voices bounce off metal lockers, a symphony of bullshit and ball-busting that sounds exactly like coming home.
“GARCIA!”
I barely have time to brace myself before Maine’s massive hand slaps between my shoulder blades with enough force to rearrange my spine. At six-five, the guy’s basically a walking tree with blue eyes and a perpetual expression like he’s about to tell you he just invented electricity or banged a supermodel.
“What’s up, man?” he booms, his freckled face split with a grin. “I hardly heard from you over Christmas. I sent you a bunch of messages…”
“No, you sent me a bunch of messages—seventeen, to be exact—of all the girls you’d hooked up with,” I deadpan. “I was busy doing literally anything else.”
“I’m expanding my photography repertoire,” Maine huffs. “Some of us have to chase hard to match your reputation…”
I roll my eyes, because yet again the talk of me being a campus sexual hotshot has spread, but then I grin. “You can ask your mom all about my reput?—”
Before I can finish my joke, a war cry sounds from across the room. I have about half a second to prepare before Rook launches himself at me, hooking an arm around my neck with the enthusiasm of a Labrador who just found out about tennis balls.
“LIIIIIINC!” he screams directly into my ear.
“Jesus, Rook. Inside voice,” I groan, extracting myself from his headlock. Our freshman goalie has exactly two volume settings: loud and what-the-fuck-was-that-an-air-raid-siren? Today he’s on the higher end of the spectrum, practically vibrating with energy.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “I’m just pumped to get back on the ice, you know?”
“Sure,” I say, looking around the locker room at the rest of the guys.
They’re all here—well, most of them. Cooper’s explaining something to Schmidt. Kellerman’s taping his stick with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. Martinez is sprawled on the bench, already in his leg pads, texting with the speed and intensity of someone trying to prevent a nuclear launch.
But something’s off.
The energy is different.
It’s not just that Declan’s missing—his massive presence will be hard to replace—but more so like the room is holding its breath. The season’s halfway done, we’re in third place, and our captain’s ankle is more screws than bone. Nobody’s saying it out loud, but we’re all thinking the same thing.
How the hell do we make this work?
I give the guys a nod, acknowledging their greetings as I head to my locker. The walk feels longer than it should. The space next to mine belongs to Mike. And it has ever since freshman year, when we ended up side by side by coincidence.
Four years of this exact routine, and today it just feels wrong.
Mike’s locker is never neat. It’s the running joke—team captain can’t find his jock strap most days. His space is usually a disaster zone of protein bar wrappers, random socks missing their mates, skate laces tangled like a cat got to them, and his stick perpetually threatening to fall out and brain someone.
But today?
His space looks like an equipment catalog photo. Everything’s folded with military precision. His skates rest on top, blades removed and meticulously cleaned, and his stick collection, usually a chaotic pile, stands orderly in the corner. There’s no dirty clothes, half-empty water bottles…
“When did he Marie Kondo his locker?” I ask Maine, who’s changing into practice gear nearby.
Maine glances over, long enough to register the anomaly, then shrugs. “No idea. Didn’t even notice.”
Though Mike is redshirting the remainder of his senior year with plans to return next season, he’ll still be integral to the team as our captain. So why has he packed up his locker to look like he’s done for the year, and why is he not here today?
Before I can contemplate Mike’s unnaturally clean locker any longer, the door that connects the locker room to the coach’s office bangs open, and Coach Barrett’s head pops out, thick neck straining against his collar like a bulldog trying to escape its leash.
“Five minutes to ice!” he barks. His gaze sweeps the room, landing on Rook, who’s currently demonstrating what appears to be an interpretive dance about his Christmas break hookups. “And for the love of God, Fitzgerald, shut the hell up unless you want to run the easy four after practice.”
The “easy four” is Coach’s newest torture device—a brutal four-mile loop around campus he “discovered” during winter break. The path includes the steep hill behind the science building that’s practically vertical and the muddy trail through the woods where students often break ankles. Nothing about it is easy.
Rook immediately clamps his mouth shut and gives Coach a thumbs up.
“Wise choice,” Coach grunts before his head disappears, the door slamming.
