Page 102 of Practice Makes Perfect
Definitely like last night with Em.
I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face as I think about that encounter for the fiftieth time. About her. About the way she looked at me when we were in Declan’s room, her lips still swollen from my kisses, her eyes bright with something that wasn’t just desire.
“I want you.”
Those three words keep echoing in my head, but not just because of what they led to physically. It’s the weight behind them that’s got me feeling like I scored a hat trick in the biggest game of my life. She wants me, and fuck if I don’t want her just as much.
I scoop the diced onion into a bowl and move on to the bell peppers, the knife gliding through crisp flesh with minimal resistance. The recipe calls for red and yellow, but I boughtgreen too because I like the color contrast. My dad always says presentation matters just as much as taste.
“Whoa, what’s the occasion?”
I glance up to find Mike standing in the kitchen doorway, eyebrows raised as he takes in the spread across our counter—fresh herbs, marinating chicken, a bottle of decent wine I splurged on… it’s a spread that’sfarbetter than anything I’veeverput on for hockey team dinners.
“Date night,” I say, feeling a weird mix of pride and self-consciousness. “Em’s coming over.”
“No shit?” Mike grins, hobbling toward the fridge. “Wow, Lincoln Garcia is finally ready to settle down…”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Maybe…”
He pulls out a Gatorade and leans against the counter, eyeing me with newfound interest. “Maine was practically doing a victory-dance.”
“I bet he was,” I laugh. “Which side of the bet were you on?”
“No comment.” He flashes a grin, another hint of the Mike of old that’s slowly creeping back in. “So you’re cooking for her?”
“It’s just chicken piccata.” I shrug, trying to downplay the effort I’ve been putting into this. “Nothing fancy.”
“Right.” Mike snorts. “Just chicken piccata with…”—he peers into my mixing bowl—“homemade pasta? Dude, you never cook like this for the team… I’m hurt.”
“The team eats like a pack of starved wolves,” I point out. “You guys wouldn’t appreciate the subtle flavor profile of lemon and capers.”
“The subtle what now?” Mike laughs. “Listen to you, like Gordon Ramsay or some shit.”
“Haven’t you got somewhere to be?” I say good-naturedly, scooping the peppers into another bowl.
“Not till later.” He takes a swig of his Gatorade, studying me over the bottle. “How you feeling about Brown?”
My knife stills for a fraction of a second before I resume chopping the vegetables. “Fine.”
“Fine?” He raises an eyebrow. “They’ve totally kicked our asses three years running.”
“And this year they won’t,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “We’ve got better depth.”
“No we don’t…” Mike laughs. “Declan left the team, and I haven’t played in an eternity…”
“Depth ofsoul, asshole,” I grin. “Now Em is by my side, I’m going to score a hat trick every game.”
“That’s so mushy it makes me sick,” Mike says dryly. “You been working on that line for your post-game interview?”
I laugh, but the truth is, I’ve been actively trying not to think about the Brown game. Not just because they’re stacked with talent, but because my parents are coming. And while I love them—I do, fiercely—the prospect of my mom in the stands still fills me with a strange, simmering dread.
It’s been three days since I last responded to her messages. Three days of avoiding her increasingly frequent texts about NHL scouts who might be at the game, about how Mr. Harrison from her book club has a cousin who works for the Capitals’ organization, about how proud she is of her “superstar.”
Each message adds more weight to my shoulders, another expectation I’m afraid of failing to meet. And now she’s sent twenty—twenty—photos of her book club members crowded around a laptop streaming my last game. Twenty different angles of middle-aged women in cardigans holding up homemade signs.
I don’t know whether to be touched or mortified.
“Earth to Linc,” Mike says, waving a hand in front of my face. “Where’d you go, man?”
