Page 54 of Practice Makes Perfect
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 andyanked 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.
