Page 50 of Practice Makes Perfect
“I’m happy for you,” Lea says, cutting into my thoughts. “Really. Just… be careful, OK? Not just physically, but emotionally too.”
“I will,” I promise, deciding not to examine too closely why that feels like a lie. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Yeah, well, maybe next time give me a heads-up before I walk in on you. That was an image I wasn’t prepared for.”
“Trust me, I wasn’t prepared for it either.” I rub my still-tender nipple through my sweatshirt. “Life lesson right there.”
Lea cringes. “Oh god, did he bite you?”
“Not on purpose! I jumped and—” I make a clacking sound with my teeth. “It was an unfortunate collision.”
She bursts out laughing, and I join her, the tension between us dissolving.
“So,” she says when we’ve recovered, “on a scale of one to mind-blowing, how is he?”
“We didn’t get that far, thanks to you,” I remind her, but then a smile creeps across my face. “But based on preliminary data? The hype is completely justified.”
“Damn,” she says appreciatively. “Hockey players, man.”
“Hockey players,” I agree, trying to ignore the feeling in my chest when I think about seeing him again. It’s just excitement, I tell myself. Not feelings.
Definitely not feelings.
thirteen
LINC
My knife slicesthrough the onion with practiced precision as I fall into the familiar rhythm of my grandmother’s Arroz con Pollo recipe. The sharp scent burns my eyes, but I welcome the distraction. Anything to take my mind off the constant buzz of anticipation that’s been humming through my veins for days.
Three days since the first ‘lesson’ with Em, and it keeps replaying in my head like a highlight reel—her shy smile when I presented my lesson plan, the soft gasp when I kissed her collarbone, the way her back arched when I kissed her nipple, and her squeal when I bit?—
The knife slips, narrowly missing my finger.
Fuck. Focus, Garcia.
I scrape the onions into a bowl and move on to the peppers, their crisp flesh offering more resistance than the onions. The familiar motions ground me, connecting me to dozens of Sunday afternoons spent in my grandmother’s kitchen in Virginia, her patient hands guiding mine.
“A good dish feeds more than the body,” she’d say in her musical accent, somehow making chopping peppers sound profound.
But right now, my attention is anywhere but on these vegetables. It keeps sliding back to Em’s apartment, or else to the upcoming game against Colgate, and occasionally to the fact that I’ve got to havethatconversation with Mike tonight.
Andthatconversation is why I’m cooking at all.
Maine and Dec are on their way, having agreed to be my support animals for the conversation, or backup if Mike decides to take a swing. Maine had suggested pizza at his place—neutral territory for what might be a difficult conversation with Mike—but I countered with cooking here instead.
I dump the peppers in with the onions and start on the garlic, crushing each clove with the flat of my blade before mincing it into tiny pieces. This is why I cook. It’s methodical. Predictable. Unlike hockey, where a thousand variables can derail your perfect play. Unlike co-captaining with a friend who’s spiraling.
The table is set, the rice cooker is plugged in, and the chicken is marinating in a blend of spices I eyeballed from memory. My grandmother would be horrified—she believes in precise measurements—but I’ve made this often enough to trust my instincts.
Trust.
Like the sort Em is placing in me.
And what I’m trying to place in Mike by confiding in him, despite everything.
I’m so deep in my head that the sudden CLANG of metal against metal nearly makes me slice off a finger.
“Yo, Garcia!” Declan stands in the doorway, grinning like an idiot while Maine bangs a pot like he’s summoning dinner at a cowboy camp.
