Page 22 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

I glance up sharply. “What?”

“Nothing,” Declan says, raising his palms. “Just… you seem to like each other.”

My knife pauses mid-chop. “Did Lea say that?”

“She didn’t have to.” Declan shrugs. “I’ve seen how you look at each other. But we’ll see how it goes.” He smirks. “It’s not like you’ve slept together or anything…”

Heat creeps up my neck. I know he means that as a joke, but the technical truth makes it worse somehow. We haven’t slept together, but we’ve definitely done… other things.

“Food’s almost ready,” I say, dodging the conversation entirely. “Go tell them?”

Declan looks amused but mercifully backs off. “Sure thing.”

As he disappears into the living room, I take a deep breath. The last thing I need right now is everyone getting all up in my business about Em. What we have is… complicated. And new. And private. And so fucking good it scares me a little.

I shake my head, refocusing on dinner. The chicken sizzles as I transfer it to the pan, the aroma of garlic and spices filling the kitchen. I throw the vegetables in next, giving everything a stir.

“YOU FUCKING CHEATED!” Mike’s voice cuts through the apartment like a gunshot.

I whip around to see Mike jabbing a finger at the TV screen where the Mario Kart results still display. Maine’s character sits triumphantly in first place, Mike’s Bowser in second.

“I did not,” Maine says. “You took the inside line on Rainbow Road. Rookie mistake.”

“You used a shortcut that’s not part of the official track,” Mike insists, his face flushing an alarming shade of red.

“It’s in the game,” Maine says, sounding maddeningly reasonable. “If Nintendo put it there, it’s legal, dipshit.”

“It’s bullshit,” Mike snarls, throwing the controller onto the couch with enough force that it bounces off and clatters to the floor. “You’re a cheater.”

Maine raises an eyebrow. “Dude, chill. It’s just a game.”

Wrong thing to say. I can see the exact moment Mike’s control snaps. I take a step out of the kitchen. “Hey, guys, I?—”

Mike ignores me as he barrels on. “Maybe it’s just a game to you, but this is all I have right now.”

Maine frowns. “What do you mean?”

Mike laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. “I sit on the bench every day watching you guys play out our senior season while my ankle is as fucked as ever.”

“I thought your rehab was going well,” Declan says quietly. “Last time we talked, you said?—”

“I tweaked the ligament lifting the other day,” Mike cuts in.

“My physiotherapist says I’ve got at least a few more weeks of therapy before I can get back on the ice for even the most basic activity.

” His voice cracks slightly on the last words, and he turns away, jaw clenched. “I’m back where I started.”

Maine glances at the food, then back at Mike. “Let’s forget about this and eat, yeah? Food’s getting cold.”

Mike ignores him. His eyes burn with a fever-bright intensity that makes my stomach knot. “You don’t get it. None of you do.”

“Mike—” I start.

“No,” he cuts me off. “I saw you judging me when I was working out the other day. You think I’m overdoing it.”

I hesitate, torn between honesty and diplomacy. “I think maybe you could be more careful with workouts, yeah.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Mike says, his voice suddenly raw. “Working out is the only thing I can control, the only way I feel good.”

“By reinjuring yourself?” I can’t keep the frustration from my voice, although I immediately regret saying it.

“At least I feel something!” Mike shouts. “What do you want me to do? Pretend I’m not dying inside watching everything I worked for slip away?”

The kitchen falls silent except for the gentle bubbling of the food. I stare at Mike, really seeing him for the first time in weeks—the dark circles under his eyes, the way his Pine Barren t-shirt hangs a little looser than it used to, the desperation in his expression.

This isn’t just about hockey. This is about identity. About purpose.

I understand that better than I want to admit.

“No one’s asking you to pretend,” I say quietly. “But destroying your body isn’t the answer either.”

“So what is?” Mike demands.

It’s a perfect opening.

“I think,” I say, taking a deep breath, “we need to talk about what happened at practice the other day.”

Mike’s eyes narrow. “What about it?”

“You were riding me pretty hard,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Every shot I took, you had something to say about it. And not in a helpful way.”

“I was giving you pointers,” Mike says, defensive. “You were missing easy shots.”

“It felt more like you were taking your anger out on me.”

His nostrils flare. “I wasn’t angry.”

“Really?”

“Look,” Mike says, setting his beer down with more force than necessary, “being on the bench gives me a different perspective. I can see things you guys can’t when you’re in the middle of it, things Coach isn’t bringing up for whatever reason.”

“He’s getting divorced,” I say, leaning against the kitchen counter, measuring my words. “But picking holes in teammates is not a captain’s job, Mike.”

“What?”

“A captain’s job isn’t to beat the team down,” I say, desperately hoping he gets it. “It’s to lift them up, to lead them.”

Mike’s laugh is sharp and bitter. “And how would you know anything about being captain, Garcia?”

The room goes silent.

“I’m your co-captain, remember?” I say quietly.

“Right.” Mike sneers the word. “A title you got because I’m off the ice.”

His words hit like a slap, but I force myself to stay calm. “You don’t mean that.”

“Like hell I don’t,” Mike says, his words precise and cutting. “Let’s be real—you’ve spent the last three years being mediocre, and now you’ve got the ‘C’ on your chest you’re feeling like a big dog. But being co-captain isn’t the clincher that’s going to get you into the NHL, Linc.”

The words hit so close to my own insecurities that for a moment, I can’t speak. It’s like he reached into my head and yanked out my deepest fears—not making it to the league and letting down my mom, who’s put her entire identity into me being drafted.

“Dude,” Maine cuts in, setting down his fork with a clatter. “What the fuck? That is extremely fucked up.”

But both Mike and I ignore Maine as I stare at Mike, a dozen responses racing through my mind. But none of the sensible responses—telling him that I never asked for this responsibility, that I miss my friend, that I understand his pain—can beat out the white-hot rage coursing through me.

In fact, it takes all my control not to throw a pot at him or take a swing. “Food’s ready,” I say flatly, pushing away from the counter. “Help yourselves.”

“Linc—” Maine starts, but I’m already heading for the door.

“I need some air,” I say, grabbing my jacket from the hook.

I don’t look back as I step into the hallway, closing the door behind me. If I stay, I might do something I’ll regret. Like punch Mike. Or worse, tell him how much his words just echoed what my own brain has been telling me since I was twelve.

That I’ve got talent but not enough drive, that I’m good but not good enough.