Page 64 of Practice Makes Perfect
This is classic George Garcia communication—thoughtful, somewhat philosophical, and entirely devoid of direct advice. He offers perspective that is an absolute bulls-eye, but leaves the conclusions up to me. He’s always been like that—trusting me to figure it out, even if it takes a while—and I appreciate it.
“I’m trying to be understanding,” I say. “But it’s hard when he’s actively making things worse for the team.”
“Mmm,” my dad hums noncommittally. “Speaking of teams, your mother mentioned you’ve got a new group project in that biomechanics class?”
For a few precious minutes, we talk about normal college senior stuff. Not NHL prospects or team drama—just classes and professors and that weird coffee place on campus that somehow burns their beans every single morning yet stays in business.
I actually find myself laughing when my dad describes his latest work adventure—apparently, a shipment of donated canned goods for his charity food program turned out to be entirely creamed corn. Three thousand cans. Ample food but of the worst kind.
“You laugh,” he says, “but you try getting creative with creamed corn recipes for two hundred hungry kids.”
“Creamed corn smoothies?” I suggest.
“Don’t think we haven’t considered it,” he snorts, and in the background, I hear my mother’s voice growing louder, and then there’s more shuffling.
“Your father is terrible at sharing!” My mother’s voice returns. “Anyway, I should let you go. I know you’re busy. Just remember to keep an eye out for suits!”
She means scouts. Again with the scouts.
I sigh, but not loud enough that she’ll hear. “Sure, Mom. Love you,” I say.
“We love you too!” She makes an exaggerated kissing sound into the phone.
After hanging up, I stare at my phone, exhaustion settling over me like a physical weight. Her expectations—along with everything else—feel like they’re compressing my chest. How is it possible to get off a call with the person who loves you most in the world and feel completely drained?
I drop my phone back into my pocket and resume my trudge toward my apartment, legs still burning with each step. The conversation with my parents has left me more drained than Coach Barrett’s suicide drills, though in a completely different way.
Sometimes I think I’d rather skate until I vomit than navigate the minefield of my mother’s expectations.
After a few minutes of walking, allowing the crisp evening air to cool my overheated muscles, I find my thoughts drifting to Mike. Another practice he’s missed, another excuse that Coach pretended to believe. I get that his ankle is still a mess, but his attitude is a bigger problem at this point.
What started as cold silence between us after our argument has evolved into an elaborate dance of avoidance. If I’m in thekitchen, Mike’s suddenly got urgent business in his bedroom. If I’m watching TV, he needs to be literally anywhere else. We’ve become experts at tracking each other’s movements around the apartment, ensuring our paths cross as infrequently as possible.
Two months left in the season, and I can’t even speak to my co-captain without the conversation devolving into passive-aggressive bullshit. The only thing worse than an injured captain is an injured captain with an attitude problem.
I reach a crossroads on campus. Left leads to my apartment, where Mike is probably sulking in his room. Right leads to the 7-Eleven and a possible Slurpee, which suddenly feels like the only good thing that might happen today. It’s not much of a choice, so I pivot right.
As I walk towards my sugary hit, my phone burns a hole in my pocket, or at least, it feels that way. Em has been living in my head rent-free since our car conversation two nights ago. And, not for the first time, I find myself pulling out my phone, thumb hovering over her name.
What would I even say?
Hey, still thinking about how you told me your deeply personal trauma, wanna make out?
Yeah, that would go over well.
The memory of her in my car—the way she let her guard down, how natural it felt to talk to her, how close I came to kissing her—flashes through my mind. I still regret not closing that gap between us, despite knowing it would complicate everything.
But our next lesson is only days away. If I text her now, see her before then… I’m not sure I can maintain the boundaries we established. The more distance between us, and the more time that passes between that charged moment and the next time I see her, the better chance I have of sticking to our arrangement.
With reluctance, I pocket my phone without texting her.
It’s the right call.
The one area of my life where I still have some measure of control.
The blue and fluorescent white of the 7-Eleven sign beckons me forward like a beacon of hope in my otherwise complicated existence. I push open the door, acknowledging the cashier with a nod as the bell jingles overhead, then make a beeline for the Slurpee machine.
The last time I was here, I ran into Em and she proposed our… arrangement. But unless the universe has a sick sense of humor, tonight I’ll need to be content with filling the largest cup with Blue Raspberry. Then, as I head to the checkout, something catches my eye.
