Practice Doesn't Make Perfect, Only Perfect Practice Makes Perfect

The first hint of dawn had barely kissed the horizon when Jeremy's world began to unravel. His sleep, already fitful and shallow, was abruptly severed by the insistent clamor of his phone's ringtone. With a groggy hand, he swiped at the device, his bleary eyes widening at the sight of thirty-five missed calls. All from Terrell Hillis, his fiery-tempered General Manager. The texts, a vitriolic cascade, echoed the calls' urgency, each one a promise of retribution and legal threats.

Jeremy sat up, the remnants of sleep clinging stubbornly to his consciousness. He rubbed his face vigorously, trying to shake off the disorientation. As he read through the messages, Terrell's rage was almost palpable, leaping off the screen with every accusation of betrayal and pledges of vengeance. The onslaught was relentless. *'You'll regret this, Jeremy. You can't just push me out. I'll sue you for every penny. Lombardi will hear about this, and you'll be finished!'*

Taking a deep breath, Jeremy's finger