Page 3 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)
two
LINC
Mario Kart is the ultimate bullshit detector.
Playing a game online with some of the hockey guys, I can tell everything about a person based on how they react when hit with a blue shell. Some people—like Declan—take it with a philosophical sigh. Others—like Maine—throw their controllers across the room and scream profanities.
Me? I’m somewhere in the middle. I don’t totally lose my shit, but I do get personally offended when that spiky blue bastard homes in on me. Kind of like right now, as my Yoshi careens off Rainbow Road thanks to a blue shell fired by Maine driving as Bowser.
“Screw you, Maine!” I shout at the TV. “Just because you can’t drive doesn’t mean you have to take the rest of us down!”
The screen splits into four as we cross the finish line.
Declan’s Wario takes first, Maine’s Bowser comes in second, and I finish mid-table.
The computer players fill out the rest, but they don’t matter at all.
What matters is I was the last human over the line, so I now have to buy the first round at O’Neil’s tonight.
My phone vibrates against the coffee table just as Declan’s victory animation plays. I grab it, and it’s the hockey chat—not the big one with the entire team, but our smaller group: me, Maine, Declan (even though he’s left the team), Rook, and a select few others.
We created it last year when Mike got hurt and went all sullen, and since then we’ve used it to coordinate things away from Mike’s eyes and occasionally bitch about him when he’s being painful. And, if I’m being honest, that’s most of the time.
Maine:
Anyone heard from Mike today?
Rook:
LINC DON’T FORGET TO TELL HIM ABOUT THE LATE PRACTICE.
Declan:
Why are you always yelling?
Rook:
CAPS LOCK brOKEN. JK I’M JUST EXCITED FOR LIFE!!!!!
Maine:
Sometimes I get excited about the idea of blocking you.
I snort in amusement. Rook types exactly how he talks—at maximum volume with zero chill. It’s like his personality is permanently stuck in all caps. I consider what I want to say for a moment, then think twice about it, then decide to let it rip.
Linc:
Can’t someone else tell him?
The silence in response to my message is deafening.
“Great,” I mutter.
I’d agreed to move out of my dorm at the end of last semester and move in with Mike to help him out, but I’d underestimated how much of a drag it would be. He’s in his room most of the time, sullen and with music blaring, and it’s a drain.
Linc:
Fine, I’ll tell him. He’s in his room.
Declan:
How’s he doing?
Declan’s instant reply tells me plenty. He doesn’t want to check on Mike—too busy playing happy couple with Lea—but he still cares about his best friend. The answer isn’t simple, because even though I’d hoped Mike would come back from the semester break in a better mood, he seems as sullen as ever.
Linc: Same.
It’s a non-answer, but what else can I say? That he spends hours staring at NHL highlight reels? That he’s been organizing and reorganizing his hockey gear every few days like it’s some kind of ritual? That sometimes I hear him pacing his room at 3 a.m.?
Declan sends back a thumbs up, which means he understands.
He and Mike have been tight since freshman year.
If anyone gets the complicated mess that is Mike Altman right now, it’s Declan.
He’s left the team, but he still knows Mike better than anyone.
He should have been the one to move in, but with Lea…
Yeah, I drew the short straw.
So here I am, babysitting a sulking hockey player while trying not to feel like an impostor in his space. The apartment still feels like Mike’s, even though I’ve been here a while. I haven’t moved anything or added much besides clothes and my gaming system, and I sometimes miss my old place.
With a sigh, I decide it’s time to face the beast in his lair.
I approach anyway and knock twice.
No answer.
I knock again, harder. “Mike? You alive in there?”
A grunt, which could mean anything from “I’m great, thanks for asking” to “I’m planning your murder.” With Mike these days, it’s difficult to tell.
“Come in,” Mike finally grumbles, his voice muffled through the door.
I push the door open to find him mid-push-up, knees bent awkwardly to keep his injured ankle from touching the ground. Sweat glistens on his forehead and neck, his T-shirt clinging to his torso like it’s been painted on. The room reeks of Deep Heat and determination.
“Dude, you ever heard of opening a window?” I wave a hand in front of my face. “Smells like the inside of a gym sock in here.”
Mike ignores me and keeps counting under his breath.
“Forty-seven… forty-eight…” His arms tremble slightly, but his form is perfect—back straight, elbows tucked.
The guy’s upper body resembles a Greek statue since his injury, like having an eight-pack might magically heal his shredded ankle ligaments.
I lean against his desk, accidentally knocking over a picture frame. It’s a shot of him scoring a game-winning goal last semester, before we lost him to injury and Declan to art. I quickly set it right, but not before catching his irritated glance.
“Coach wants us at practice at six tonight,” I say, tapping my phone. “Maine thinks you should come… for team morale…”
“Right.” His voice is flat. “Because watching you guys skate around while I sit on my ass is great for everyone’s morale.”
I ignore the bitterness. It’s like breathing air at this point—just part of the atmosphere when you’re around Mike.
And I can’t say I really blame him, either.
I’ve been impressing NHL scouts this season and have a chance to go pro…
Declan was doing the same, but turned his back on hockey… and Mike… well…
“We’re grabbing pizza after the session, then heading to O’Neil’s,” I add. “First round’s on me since I lost at Mario Kart. You should come.”
Mike shakes his head, reaching for his water bottle. “Can’t. Gonna finish my exercises, then meet Lea for dinner.”
He’s talking shit. I know it’s a lie because Declan texted ten minutes ago that he’s bringing Lea to O’Neil’s. But I let it slide because there’s no point calling him out on it. Doing so would only make him retreat further into whatever dark place he’s living in these days.
“Cool,” I say instead. “Just thought I’d check.”
I turn to leave, but Mike’s voice stops me. “How’s the team looking? For real?”
The question catches me off guard. He rarely asks about hockey directly anymore, like even saying the word might burn his tongue. He’s still our captain, in name, at least, but he’s been absent more than he’s been around since he injured himself.
“We’re… adjusting,” I answer carefully. “But it’s not the same without you and Declan.”
He nods, looking at his ankle—the traitor that took away his shot at the NHL. “Rook still a disaster in the net?”
“Absolute chaos,” I confirm, grateful for this tiny fragment of normal conversation. “But he’s getting better. Coach has him doing extra drills.”
Mike almost— almost —smiles at that. “Good.”
A silence stretches between us, filled with everything he’s not saying.
I miss the Mike who’d laugh at stupid shit and who’d challenge me to ridiculous eating contests in the dining hall.
This version is bitter and withdrawn, and every time someone mentions hockey it’s like there’s a little bit more weight pressing on him.
“Coach has been acting weird,” I say, testing the waters. “Called me into his office yesterday.”
Mike’s expression shifts subtly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t say what for, just that he wanted to talk after tomorrow’s practice.”
Mike looks away, suddenly very interested in adjusting his ankle brace. “Probably nothing.”
But there’s something in his voice—a slight tension that wasn’t there before.
He knows something. I’m sure of it.
“Anyway,” I say, “I should let you get back to turning yourself into the Hulk.”
“Right.”
As I reach the door, I turn. “The offer stands. The guys would love to see you.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says, which is Mike-speak for “absolutely not.”
I close the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment. The weight of carrying two people’s hockey dreams seems to get heavier by the day—mine and now his, too. My phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s a text from my mother:
My hockey star!!! Your aunt said scouts were at your last game! Did you talk to them? Send me all the details!
I sigh and slide the phone back without answering. Just what I need—more pressure. Between Mike’s injured gloom, Coach’s mysterious meeting, and living up to my mother’s expectations, I feel like I’m skating on increasingly thin ice.
And I’m not sure how much longer it’ll hold.
The smell hits me first.
Everyone thinks hockey is about the sound of skates on ice, the crack of sticks, or the roar when the puck hits the net. They’re wrong. Hockey is a stench—sweat simmered into gear, Deep Heat rubbed on pulled muscles, and enough Old Spice and Axe body spray to kill anyone with a functioning nose.
It’s the smell of a team, of ambition, and probably several health code violations.
God, I’ve missed it.
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…”