Page 52 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. “I’m used to heavy lifting.”

“Hmm.” He considers me for a moment. “Let me ask you something. Have you ever seen your mother’s classroom?”

The question catches me off-guard. “What? I mean, yeah, a few times. When I was younger.”

“Those motivation posters she has all over the walls. The Spanish phrases of encouragement. The way she keeps track of every student’s progress.” He pauses. “That’s who your mother is, Lincoln. She doesn’t know how to love halfway or cheer from the sidelines. She gets in the game with you.”

“But—”

“Is it too much sometimes? Yes,” he acknowledges. “Does she cross boundaries? Absolutely. Will I be having a very serious conversation with her about that email? You bet.” His voice hardens on that last part, and I remember that while Dad may be quiet, he’s not a pushover.

“But don’t make the mistake of thinking her love is conditional on you making the NHL.

” His eyes hold mine. “Your mother would tear down the world for you if you needed it, pro hockey or no pro hockey, and I wouldn’t want to be standing in her way.

She’s proud of you and everything you’ve achieved, Linc, and so am I. ”

Something tight in my chest loosens slightly. “Thanks.”

“And she only pushes the hockey so hard because she thinks that’s what you want.

She’d be just as enthusiastic if you wanted to be a scientist or a garbage collector.

” He shrugs. “Have you ever told her anything different? If you want her to stop pushing you toward the NHL, you need to tell her that.”

That question stops me cold, makes me blink at him. Have I ever told Mom I don’t want hockey? I’ve complained about her intensity, about the pressure, about how she embarrasses me sometimes… but I’ve never once told her to stop because I don’t want to play.

“I…” I swallow hard. “I guess I haven’t.”

Dad studies me with those patient eyes. “Do you want to stop playing?”

“No.” The answer comes instantly, surprising me with its certainty. “I don’t.”

And it’s true. Despite today’s meltdown, despite the pressure, despite everything—I love the game. I love the ice under my blades, the weight of the stick in my hands, the connection with my teammates, the fierce joy of competition.

And I want to go pro.

“So there it is,” Dad says, his voice gentle. “Your mother thinks she’s supporting your dream because she knows it’s your dream too.”

I scrub my hands over my face, feeling the scratch of stubble. “Shit. I’ve been blaming her for heaping pressure on me that I would have been feeling anyway.”

“Anyone chasing something difficult feels pressure, Linc. But those who make it own the pressure, rather than blaming someone else for it.” A tiny smile touches the corner of Dad’s mouth. “That said, your mother does get carried away. It’s part of why I fell in love with her. But it can be… a lot.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter, but there’s no bite in it.

“I’ll talk to her,” Dad says. “But she loves you, Lincoln. More than anything on this earth. Don’t shut her out because she loves you too loudly.”

I nod, surprising myself with the wetness that springs to my eyes. “I don’t want her to stop. Just… tone it down a little, maybe? It’s just…”

“Overwhelming.”

“Yeah.” I let out a shaky breath.

Dad nods. “What about the girl? Em, you said?”

My stomach clenches at her name. “What about her?”

“You care about her.”

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yeah. A lot.”

“But you’re worried that she only likes you because you’re…”

“The campus ‘bed chem’ guy,” I say, wincing at how it sounds out loud. “Guy with the good reputation. Future NHL player.” I shake my head. “What if that’s all I am to her? A story she’ll tell someday about the hockey player she dated in college?”

Dad considers this. “There’s only one way to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Talk to her.”

I stare at him. “That’s it? That’s your advice? ‘Talk to her’?”

“Or I could send an email?” The ghost of a smile touches his lips.

“ Asshole .” I shake my head. “I can’t just walk up to her…”

“Why not?” Dad says. “You could apologize for hurting her. Explain what was going through your head. Be honest about your insecurities.” He pauses. “That’s all any of us can do, Lincoln. The hard conversations—they don’t get easier if you run from them—and it sounds like you’ve got a few to have.”

He’s right, and I know it. But the thought of facing Em after how I left things makes my chest tight with fear. Not just fear of rejection—though that’s definitely there—but fear that I’ve damaged something precious beyond repair.

“What if she won’t even talk to me?” My voice comes out smaller than I intended.

“Then at least you’ll know you tried.” Dad leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “Regret is a heavy thing to carry around, son. Trust me on that.”

Something in his tone makes me look at him sharply. There’s a story there, but this isn’t the moment to ask for it. Not when he’s here, in the middle of the night, giving me exactly what I need when I didn’t even know I needed it.

“I’ve really screwed things up, haven’t I?” I say, more to myself than to him. “Em… the team…”

“Probably.” He gives a small shrug. “But you’d be surprised how many screwed up things can be fixed with sincerity and time.”

“You think?”

“I do.” His certainty is oddly reassuring. “But it starts with showing up. Facing the music. Having the hard conversations.”

I nod slowly, feeling something settle in my chest. A sense of purpose, maybe. Or just the simple clarity of knowing what I need to do next, however difficult it might be.

“Thanks, Dad.” The words feel inadequate for what he’s given me tonight, but they’re all I have.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

On impulse, I lean over and wrap my arms around him. It’s awkward, both of us on the bench, but I can’t remember the last time I hugged my father. Certainly not in years, and that suddenly seems like the most tragic thing.

“I love you,” I say, words I haven’t said to him since I was maybe thirteen and decided I was too cool for such childish displays.

He stiffens for a second—surprise, not rejection—before his arms come around me. “I love you too, son,” he says, voice rough with emotion.

When we pull apart, there’s a shine in his eyes that matches the dampness I feel in my own.

And, at this moment, I realize something important: I’ve spent so much time this year worrying about what others expect from me—Mom, Coach, the team, the scouts, even Em—that I’d lost track of what I expect from myself.

Now, for the first time in a while, I feel like I’m heading in the right direction.