Page 7 of Practice Makes Perfect
“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 slidebecause 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 This version is bitter and withdrawn, and every time someone mentions hockey it’s like there’s a little bit more weight pressing on him.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.
