Page 21 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

thirteen

LINC

My knife slices through the onion with practiced precision as I fall into the familiar rhythm of my grandmother’s Arroz con Pollo recipe.

The sharp scent burns my eyes, but I welcome the distraction.

Anything to take my mind off the constant buzz of anticipation that’s been humming through my veins for days.

Three days since the first ‘lesson’ with Em, and it keeps replaying in my head like a highlight reel—her shy smile when I presented my lesson plan, the soft gasp when I kissed her collarbone, the way her back arched when I kissed her nipple, and her squeal when I bit?—

The knife slips, narrowly missing my finger.

Fuck. Focus, Garcia.

I scrape the onions into a bowl and move on to the peppers, their crisp flesh offering more resistance than the onions. The familiar motions ground me, connecting me to dozens of Sunday afternoons spent in my grandmother’s kitchen in Virginia, her patient hands guiding mine.

“A good dish feeds more than the body,” she’d say in her musical accent, somehow making chopping peppers sound profound.

But right now, my attention is anywhere but on these vegetables. It keeps sliding back to Em’s apartment, or else to the upcoming game against Colgate, and occasionally to the fact that I’ve got to have that conversation with Mike tonight.

And that conversation is why I’m cooking at all.

Maine and Dec are on their way, having agreed to be my support animals for the conversation, or backup if Mike decides to take a swing. Maine had suggested pizza at his place—neutral territory for what might be a difficult conversation with Mike—but I countered with cooking here instead.

I dump the peppers in with the onions and start on the garlic, crushing each clove with the flat of my blade before mincing it into tiny pieces.

This is why I cook. It’s methodical. Predictable.

Unlike hockey, where a thousand variables can derail your perfect play.

Unlike co-captaining with a friend who’s spiraling.

The table is set, the rice cooker is plugged in, and the chicken is marinating in a blend of spices I eyeballed from memory. My grandmother would be horrified—she believes in precise measurements—but I’ve made this often enough to trust my instincts.

Trust.

Like the sort Em is placing in me.

And what I’m trying to place in Mike by confiding in him, despite everything.

I’m so deep in my head that the sudden CLANG of metal against metal nearly makes me slice off a finger.

“Yo, Garcia!” Declan stands in the doorway, grinning like an idiot while Maine bangs a pot like he’s summoning dinner at a cowboy camp.

“Jesus,” I mutter, setting down my knife, glad I’m not decorating the kitchen with a spray of blood. “Give a guy some warning.”

“We did.” Maine sets the pot down. “Called out your name three times. You were in the zone.”

Before I can respond, hurried footsteps pound down the hallway. Mike appears in the doorway, face contorted with irritation, hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted. He’s wearing sweatpants and a Pine Barren Hockey t-shirt that looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week.

“What the fuck?” he demands. “I was meditating.”

We all freeze. The silence stretches for a beat too long.

“You were what now?” Maine asks finally.

Mike’s scowl deepens. “Meditating. It’s a thing where you sit and?—”

“I know what meditation is,” Maine interrupts. “Since when do you do it?”

“Since my physiotherapist suggested it might help with the pain.” Mike’s tone dares us to comment. “And you assholes just ruined it.”

Declan, who’s never met tension he couldn’t defuse, leans against the counter. “Next you’ll tell us you like kombucha.”

“Fuck off,” Mike mutters, but there’s no real bite to it. He runs a hand over his face. “That was my first time trying it, and now I have to start over.”

“Did it help?” I ask, genuinely curious. “With the pain?”

Mike shrugs, avoiding my eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t get far enough to tell.” He glances at the cutting board. “What are you making?”

“Arroz con Pollo.” I shrug, although I mentally prepare for him to find something to fault. “My grandmother’s recipe.”

“Beats pizza,” Maine says, sniffing appreciatively at the marinating chicken. “Though I’m still not convinced anything tops Domino’s garlic bread.”

“That’s because your taste buds were stunted by too many pucks to the face,” Declan replies, then turns to Mike. “Forget meditation. After a few rounds of Mario Kart, you’ll find a different kind of flow state. The kind where you’re cursing at all of us for blue-shelling you.”

Mike doesn’t smile, but some tension eases from his shoulders. “Whatever. I’m going to grab a beer.”

As he heads to the fridge, I exchange glances with Maine and Declan. This is going better than expected. Mike’s communicating, at least, even if he’s still got all the charm of a rattlesnake. The fact that he hasn’t retreated to his room yet is a big win…

Maybe tonight won’t be a total disaster.

I return to my garlic, dumping it into the bowl with the other vegetables. As I slice into it, the seeds and juice spill across the cutting board, and I find myself thinking of how Em’s lips had parted under mine, soft and yielding.

“You’re smiling at a tomato,” Maine observes. “That’s weird, even for you.”

“Just thinking about food,” I lie.

“Your food-thinking face is different from your girl-thinking face.”

“I don’t have a girl-thinking face,” I object.

Mike pops the cap off his beer. “You definitely do. You get this dopey look.”

“Thanks. That’s flattering.”

Maine turns to Mike. “Mario Kart?”

“I’m in,” Mike says, surprising me with his enthusiasm. “Dibs on Bowser.”

“You’re such a stereotype,” Maine laughs.

“Big, fearless leader?” Mike snorts.

“Big, grumpy defenseman choosing the big, grumpy character,” Maine says.

I hide my smile as they bicker their way toward the living room, then start up the game. This is the most animated I’ve seen Mike in weeks. Maybe I’ve been overthinking the whole captaincy conversation, and maybe all he needed was some normal friend time.

“How can I help?” Declan offers, staying behind as the others disappear down the hallway.

I glance at Declan, suddenly aware of the parallels.

Last semester, we stood in this same kitchen, cooking dinner while Mike and Maine were distracted elsewhere.

That was the night Declan first told me about his feelings for Lea—before anyone else knew, and even before he’d even admitted it to himself fully.

“Rice is in the pantry,” I tell him, gesturing with my chin. “Measuring cup’s by the sink. Two cups, rinse it three times.”

Declan nods. As he measures the rice, he continues talking. “So,” Declan says casually, “how are you feeling about Colgate?”

“Better,” I admit, then pause, knife hovering over the herbs. “Still not looking forward to tonight’s conversation though.”

“With Mike?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “He seems… marginally less homicidal at the moment, but who knows how long that’ll last.”

Declan turns on the tap, rinsing the rice. “I think he’s trying, in his own way. The meditation thing surprised me.”

“Me too. Though his version probably involves visualizing crushing his enemies.”

That earns me a chuckle. “Probably.”

The silence stretches between us, comfortable but weighted. Declan dumps the rice into the rice cooker, measures the water, and hits start before turning back to me.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” he says, leaning against the counter.

I nod, avoiding eye contact as I chop cilantro, because something in his tone puts me on alert. “Go ahead,” I say.

“Do you resent me? For leaving the team?” He pauses. “I mean, with Mike’s injury and everything… it left a lot on your shoulders.”

I carefully set the knife down, giving myself time to formulate an answer. The honest one feels complicated—part of me did resent him initially, but now—after wearing all this pressure from Coach and the situation with Mike and the constant attention from my mom—I kinda get it.

“No,” I say finally, meeting his eyes. “I mean, yeah, it’s been harder than I expected, with Mike and everything, but you made the right call for you. You’re in love with Lea, and with your art, and we both know that’s the future you want rather than pucks and skates.”

His shoulders relax slightly. “Thanks. I’ve been feeling guilty about it.”

“Well, stop. You’re happier now, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, a small smile playing at his lips. “I am.”

“Then it was the right choice.” I pick up my knife again, resuming my chopping. “Besides, it’s not like you’ve disappeared. You’re still around.”

“True.” Declan lowers his voice. “So… do you have a game plan for talking to Mike tonight?”

“Sort of.” I scrape the cilantro into a small bowl. “I’m going to tell him what Coach said, but I’m worried about piling too much on him at once, you know? It’s not just the captaincy stuff—it’s his overall attitude, the way he’s been treating the team.”

“The silent treatment,” Declan nods.

“Yeah, and when he does talk, it’s to criticize. The rookies are walking on eggshells around him. Which I get—he’s in pain, physically and mentally—but…”

“But it’s affecting the team,” Declan finishes.

“Exactly.” I start assembling the ingredients. “I don’t want him to feel like we’re all ganging up on him, but this can’t continue.”

From the living room comes more shouting, followed by maniacal laughter that can only be Maine celebrating a victory.

“So,” Declan says casually, clearly changing the topic, “I hear you and Em were hanging out.”

My hands freeze. “Who told you that?”

Declan tries (and completely fails) to look innocent. “Lea may have mentioned something.”

I carefully focus on mixing the vegetables together, not meeting his eyes. “We kissed at O’Neil’s then ran into each other after a game. No big deal.”

“Uh-huh.” His tone is infuriating—like he’s humoring a child who insists they didn’t eat the cookies despite the crumbs all over their face.