Page 62 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Em,”he whispers,“you feel amazing.”
My back arches off the bed as I curl my finger inside myself, hitting the spot that instantly undoes me. My movements become less controlled, more frantic, as I chase the building pressure.
“Let go,”Fantasy-Linc urges.“I’ve got you.”
A second later, pleasure hits. My body pulses around my fingers as I ride out the orgasm, gasping for breath. As the haze of pleasure fades, reality crashes back with brutal clarity.
“Well, that was unexpected,” I mutter.
Unexpected and completely at odds with our arrangement, rule number three—no feelings—is starting to seem like the most fragile of our boundaries. I grab a makeup wipe and clean up, trying to rationalize what just happened.
It doesn’t have to mean anything. Fantasies are just fantasies. I’m attracted to him, that’s all. It’s not like I’m in love with the guy. We’ve got a clear arrangement that’s mutually beneficial and has a clear cut-off point.
Right?
sixteen
LINC
I exitthe rink feeling like someone filled my legs with concrete. Coach Barrett insisted on running extra drills—his favorite punishment for what he called our “lackadaisical performance” against Colgate last night. Three hours of skating suicides later, and I’m not sure I can make it to my apartment without dying.
My teammates trudge alongside me in various states of exhaustion. Maine looks like he might vomit in the nearest trash can, while Rook—despite being our goalie and therefore supposedly exempt from the worst conditioning drills—appears ready to collapse face-first onto the pavement.
“Hey,” Maine pants, slapping my shoulder. “At least we’re building character, right?”
“Character and lactic acid,” I mutter, shifting my gear bag to my other shoulder. “Perfect combination.”
“Shame we all didn’t have specialist appointments to get to,” Maine snorts, a clear jab at Mike, who’d missed practice.
As I’m about to respond, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, and see my mother’s face on the screen—a selfie she took on my phone last Christmas, complete with reindeer antlers and red-painted cheeks—so I wave at the guys and peel off from the precession heading back to the center of campus.
As I answer, guilt immediately floods my system. I haven’t called her for weeks. Then, with a sigh, I answer. “Hi Mom,” I say.
“Lincoln! My hockey star!” Her voice practically bursts through the speaker. No matter how many times I’ve asked her to call me Linc, she insists on my full name. Says she didn’t spend nine months growing me just to abbreviate the name she picked.
“Sorry I haven’t called?—”
“Oh, please,” she cuts me off with her characteristic exuberance. “You’re busy! It’s your senior year, and you’re captain now!”
I barely suppress another sigh. “Co-captain, Mom.”
I can practically hear her dismissive hand wave. “Everyone at the school I work at is so impressed. Mrs. Gutierrez—you remember, the art teacher with the ceramic cats?—she stopped me in the hallway just to say how amazing it is that my son is captain.”
“Co-captain,” I repeat, though I know it’s futile.
“I’ve told absolutely everyone at work. And my entire book club!”
This is new. “Your book club?”
“Yes! They’re all going to be watching your game against Brown next weekend.”
I sit up straight, suddenly alert. “All of them?”
“All twelve! We’re making a whole day of it. We’re doing food, and cocktails, and I made special t-shirts with your number on them.”
An image of twelve middle-aged women in custom hockey jerseys materializes in my mind. I can already hear them screaming my name every time I touch the puck, and thank the man upstairs that they won’t actually be in attendance versus Brown.
“Mom, are you sure they want to spend their Saturday watching college hockey?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Don’t you guys usually do wine and cheese for your meetings, and talk about books and stuff?”
