Page 6 of Practice Makes Perfect
Sometimes I get excited about the idea of blocking you.
I snort in amusement. Rook types exactly how he talks—at maximum volume with zero chill. It’s like his personality is permanently stuck in all caps. I consider what I want to say for a moment, then think twice about it, then decide to let it rip.
Linc:
Can’t someone else tell him?
The silence in response to my message is deafening.
“Great,” I mutter.
I’d agreed to move out of my dorm at the end of last semester and move in with Mike to help him out, but I’d underestimated how much of a drag it would be. He’s in his room most of the time, sullen and with music blaring, and it’s a drain.
Linc:
Fine, I’ll tell him. He’s in his room.
Declan:
How’s he doing?
Declan’s instant reply tells me plenty. He doesn’t want to check on Mike—too busy playing happy couple with Lea—but he still cares about his best friend. The answer isn’t simple, because even though I’d hoped Mike would come back from the semester break in a better mood, he seems as sullen as ever.
Linc:Same.
It’s a non-answer, but what else can I say? That he spends hours staring at NHL highlight reels? That he’s been organizing and reorganizing his hockey gear every few days like it’s some kind of ritual? That sometimes I hear him pacing his room at 3 a.m.?
Declan sends back a thumbs up, which means he understands. He and Mike have been tight since freshman year. If anyone gets the complicated mess that is Mike Altman right now, it’s Declan. He’s left the team, but he still knows Mike better than anyone. He should have been the one to move in, but with Lea…
Yeah, I drew the short straw.
So here I am, babysitting a sulking hockey player while trying not to feel like an impostor in his space. The apartment still feels like Mike’s, even though I’ve been here a while. I haven’t moved anything or added much besides clothes and my gaming system, and I sometimes miss my old place.
With a sigh, I decide it’s time to face the beast in his lair.
I approach anyway and knock twice.
No answer.
I knock again, harder. “Mike? You alive in there?”
A grunt, which could mean anything from “I’m great, thanks for asking” to “I’m planning your murder.” With Mike these days, it’s difficult to tell.
“Come in,” Mike finally grumbles, his voice muffled through the door.
I push the door open to find him mid-push-up, knees bent awkwardly to keep his injured ankle from touching the ground. Sweat glistens on his forehead and neck, his T-shirt clinging to his torso like it’s been painted on. The room reeks of Deep Heat and determination.
“Dude, you ever heard of opening a window?” I wave a hand in front of my face. “Smells like the inside of a gym sock in here.”
Mike ignores me and keeps counting under his breath. “Forty-seven… forty-eight…” His arms tremble slightly, but his form is perfect—back straight, elbows tucked. The guy’s upper body resembles a Greek statue since his injury, like having an eight-pack might magically heal his shredded ankle ligaments.
I lean against his desk, accidentally knocking over a picture frame. It’s a shot of him scoring a game-winning goal last semester, before we lost him to injury and Declan to art. I quickly set it right, but not before catching his irritated glance.
“Coach wants us at practice at six tonight,” I say, tapping my phone. “Maine thinks you should come… for team morale…”
“Right.” His voice is flat. “Because watching you guys skate around while I sit on my ass is great foreveryone’smorale.”
I ignore the bitterness. It’s like breathing air at this point—just part of the atmosphere when you’re around Mike. And I can’t say I really blame him, either. I’ve been impressing NHL scouts this season and have a chance to go pro… Declan was doing the same, but turned his back on hockey… and Mike… well…
