Page 89 of Practice Makes Perfect
Unexpectedly, my anxiety settles rather than escalates. Something about seeing her—knowing she made the effort despite everything—grounds me in a way I can’t explain. And as I raise my hand in acknowledgment, I feel like I can breathe again for the first time in days.
When the puck drops for the second period, I’m laser-focused. My first shift, I intercept a pass, dodge a defender, and fire a shot that misses by inches. My second shift, I set up Maine for another scoring chance that the Dartmouth goalie somehow saves.
And, as I leave the ice for a breather, I glance toward the stands and see Em watching me attentively, and something clicks into perfect alignment. Not cheering wildly like Lea, just present. Engaged. There for me, despite everything. And it makes me feel unstoppable. She waves, and I wave back.
As I sit my ass down, I’m breathing hard, and Maine is spent as well. We’ve been pushing the pace, keeping Dartmouth’s defense scrambling, and it’s working beautifully. I grab my water bottle and take a long pull, feeling the cold liquid soothe my parched throat.
When he finally catches his breath and stops sucking down water, Maine nudges me with his elbow, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “So…”
“What?” I snort, knowing that whatever comes out of his mouth next, he’s going to give me shit. Because I knowthattone andthatsmile.
“I see your girlfriend made it.” Maine keeps his voice casual, flicking his eyes toward the stands where Em and Lea are sitting. “Nice of her to support her man.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I snap automatically, the denial shooting out with a defensiveness that betrays way more than I intended.
Maine’s eyebrows lift, his expression a clearsure, buddythat I choose to ignore. He studies my face for a moment, then breaks into a laugh. “Damn, Garcia. I was just messing with you, but now I’m thinking there’s actually something to messwith. The campus man-whore made pure…”
“Bullshit,” I mutter.
“Uh-huh.” Maine’s voice drips with skepticism. “That’s why you’ve gone as red as a virgin on prom night.” He wipes sweat from his forehead with a towel and takes another swig of water. “Also, why you keep making eyes at her every time you’re on the ice.”
“I’m not making eyes with her,” I protest, but even I can hear the weakness in my denial. “And bro, I’m literally skating, scoring, and setting up plays. Whenexactlyam I supposedly finding time for this eye contact while I’m playing out there, genius?”
“Every. Single. Shift,” Maine says, punctuating each word with a jab of his water bottle in my direction. “You skate past the bench, you look up to see if she’s there. She wasn’t, until last shift, but still you looked. Like clockwork. Like someoneprogrammed it into your hockey hardware. Then you saw her and?—”
“Shut up,” I say, before he can finish.
He laughs, but he drops it.
To change the topic, I pull out my phone and shove it in his face, screen-first. “Look at this instead of making shit up about my love life.”
His eyes scan the text from my mom, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Scouts, huh? Your mom’s got a better intel network than the CIA.” He hands the phone back with a shrug. “Who cares? We’re playing our game, they’re seeing us at our best.”
Easy for him to say. His parents have never once mentioned the NHL around him, not even when he was accepted to our program, one of the most prestigious in the north-east of the country. Whereas my parents started planning my professional career before I could skate backward.
“I just wish she’d cool it with the constant updates,” I mutter.
“Is that why you’ve been weird lately?” Maine asks.
“I’m not being weird.”
“Sure, and I’m not incredibly handsome.” He grins. “Speaking of weird, have you noticed Mike? He’s actually being a captain again. Did you talk to him?”
I nod and follow Maine’s gaze to the other end of the bench. Mike is pointing out something to Rook, who’s soaking up the attention like a puppy being praised for not pissing on the carpet.
“Yeah, look at Rook,” I say. “Kid’s glowing—probably because no one’s ever said anything nice to him before.”
“No one should, or he’ll never shut up about it.” Maine laughs. “But seriously, whatever you said to Mike, it worked. He’s back.”
I shrug, not wanting to get into the details of our conversation. “We talked it out. He had his reasons for being a dick.”
“Well, thank fuck for that. I was getting tired of being the only one who knew what they were doing around here.” Maine’s gaze drifts back to the stands. “Oh, by the way, Dec texted. He’s setting up for the party. Said Lea’s definitely coming after the game.”
My stomach tightens. “Cool.”
“And she’s bringing Em.”
The way he says it—casual but with an undercurrent of amusement—tells me he’s watching for my reaction. I keep my face as neutral as possible, which probably means I look constipated, and the seconds of silence that pass before I respond are probably a dead giveaway.
