Page 29 of Practice Makes Perfect
The attached message reads:
Two goal win! Way to go!According to some moms on Reddit, there might’ve been a scout there today!
Great. Exactly what I need right now—more pressure.
Don’t get me wrong. I love that my parents are supportive, but sometimes their—or, being honest,her—enthusiasm feels less like support and more like expectation. I mean, what am I even supposed to say?
Thanks Mom, it’s not like I’ve got enough pressure with Mike sulking all the time, being named co-captain and being put in charge of a bunch of animals who’ve lost their pack leaders, and being unable to stop thinking about this girl who basically ran away from me like I was on fire after we fooled around…
Yeah, that’d go over well.
Instead, I type:
Thanks. Love you guys.
I toss my phone onto the bench and glance at Mike. He’s sitting there, staring blankly at the floor. He hasn’t spoken to anyone since we left the ice, and he barely said two words on the bench, either. Not when Rook made an outstanding save in the third period, or when I scored to put us ahead.
Just… nothing.
This isn’t Mike being his usual serious self. This is Mike crawling so far inside his head that he might never find his way out of it. So, despite not really wanting to talk to him, I grab a towel and walk over, careful to keep my expression neutral.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “You want to grab food after this?”
Mike looks up, his eyes taking a second too long to focus on me, like he’s been lost in thought. “No.”
One syllable. Might as well be talking to a brick wall.
“Cool, cool.” I nod like this is a completely normal conversation. “Maine and I are probably hitting O’Neil’s if you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
Two syllables. Progress.
I sigh, dropping the pretense. “Look, man?—”
“Don’t.” Mike cuts me off, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “I don’t need your pity, Linc.”
I keep my gaze on him for another second, then give up and head back to my locker to finish taking off my gear. Whatever’s going on with Mike, it’s not getting solved tonight. But eventually, someone is going to have to address Mike’s behavior, because it’s a real downer on the whole team.
But I barely have a chance to sit down again when the locker room door bangs open and Coach Barrett strides in, clipboard tucked under his arm, his expression impossible to read—which is nothing new. The man has exactly two facial expressions: slightly annoyed and extremely annoyed.
“Good game tonight,” he announces to the room, and the guys immediately fall silent. “They’re a talented team, and you shut them down. Rook, decent work on saving those breakaways. Garcia—” His gaze lands on me. “My office before you hit the shower.”
And with that, he turns and walks out.
Great.
Maine gives a low whistle from the next locker over, his eyes locked on me. “What’d you do?”
“Exist, apparently.” I snort, trying to ignore the knot of dread forming in my stomach. Coach’s office invitations are never good news.
“Maybe you’re getting sent down to the minors,” Rook offers helpfully. “I hear Silver Lake High School needs a water boy.”
“I’ll request to take you with me,” I smirk. “You’d fit right in with the fourteen-year-olds.”
The guys laugh, but I notice one person who doesn’t crack a smile—Mike. He’s still sitting at his locker, looking glum. So, after another sigh, I start the trek to Coach’s office. As I pass Mike, I consider saying something else, but I decide to park it for now.
I knock once on the half-open door of the office.
