Page 103 of Practice Makes Perfect
I blink, suddenly aware that I’ve been staring at the same carrot for a solid minute. “Sorry, just… thinking about the game.”
“Bullshit,” Mike says, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he shifts topics slightly. “They’re coming up for it, aren’t they? Your parents?”
I nod, focusing intently on the carrot I’m julienning. “Yeah.”
“Your mom still blowing up your phone about scouts?”
Another nod.
“Jesus.” Mike’s laugh is half sympathy, half genuine amusement. “She’s really going all in on this hockey mom thing, huh?”
“She’s got a custom jersey that says ‘Linc’s Mom’ on the back,” I say, the words coming out flatter than intended. “With rhinestones.”
Mike tries to suppress his smile and fails spectacularly. “That’s…”
“Horrifying? Mortifying? A valid reason to fake my own death?”
“I was going to say ‘dedicated,’ but sure, go with mortifying.”
I run a hand through my hair. “I know I should be grateful. Some guys’ parents never even show up to a game.”
“Like mine…”
“I know, but…” I exhale slowly, choosing my words carefully, because I know Mike would kill to have his folks at a game. “It’s a lot of pressure, you know?”
The words hang. If I screw up with her watching, the disappointment will be unbearable. If I screw up with her watching, she’ll try to coach me from the stands. If I screw up with her watching, the weight of her dreams for me might finally crush the air out of my lungs.
Mike stares at me for a long moment, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head, weighing whether to offeradvice or just let it go. Finally, he settles on changing the subject, which I’m thankful for. There’s a time and a place for this sort of chat, and I’m glad he’s realized it’s not now, before my date.
“So.” He straightens up, tossing his empty Gatorade bottle into the recycling bin. “You nervous?”
“About the game?” I frown.
“About cooking for Em.” He gestures at the spread again. “That’s a lot of effort for a girl you weren’t even dating a day ago.”
I relax slightly, grateful for the shift. “I want it to be good.”
That’s an understatement. I want it to be perfect. Not just the food—everything. The atmosphere, the conversation, the inevitable moment when we end up in my bedroom. I want to do this relationship thing right, especially with her.
“Well, I won’t cramp your style,” Mike says. “I’ll head to Maine’s tonight.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Trust me, I do.” Mike makes a face. “Thin walls, man. Thin walls.”
Heat crawls up my neck again. “That’s not, I mean, we?—”
“Save it for your diary, Casanova.” Mike holds up a hand. “Just enjoy yourself.”
The implication hangs in the air, and I can’t pretend I haven’t thought about it. About finally being with Em completely. About taking that step together, now that she’s told me she’s ready. It’s not like I haven’t had plenty of sex before, but this feels different. Important.
“Thanks,” I say finally.
“Don’t mention it.” Mike pushes off from the counter. “And Linc?”
“Yeah?”
“She’d be into you even if you ordered pizza.”
