Page 115 of Practice Makes Perfect
“No.”
“Then what’s the point?” I gesture toward the locker room. “Go. And while you’re laying in your beds contemplating your life choices, remember that I’m being merciful. But if any of you—” I sweep my gaze across their faces, “—anyof you show up to the game tomorrow less than one hundred percent…”
The threat is implied, but clear.
They don’t need to be told twice. The six of them scramble off the ice, and as I collect the pucks from around the ice, I realize I’m not even that angry. Disappointed, sure. But not furious like I probably should be. I actually catch myself smiling as I imagine the sorry state Rook must be in right now.
Natural consequences are sometimes the best punishment.
Besides, I’ve been in their skates. Freshman year, Declan, Mike, and I once showed up to practice after a particularly ambitious night. Coach had us skating suicides until Mike threw up in a trash can, and he had to clean it out as punishment, which meant he puked again.
Lesson learned.
But now I just want to finish up here so I can get back to Em’s dorm, where she promised to make her grandmother’s recipe for croque-monsieur that she’s been talking about.
And, as I head to the locker room, I decide letting the freshmen off easy was definitely the right call. Some things are just more important than teaching hungover teenagers a lesson about responsibility.
Like croque-monsieur. And the girl making it.
twenty-eight
EM
The campus is practically desertedat this hour. A few stragglers hurry across the quad, silhouettes against the amber glow of streetlamps. My legs ache pleasantly from three straight hours of choreographing—that satisfying muscle fatigue that says I’ve accomplished something today besides existing and attending classes.
My phone buzzes against my ear as Grandma Penelope launches into another breathless recap.
“—and then Marcella confronted him about the hotel key! Can you believe it? The absoluteaudacityof this man?—”
“Hang on,” I interrupt, narrowly avoiding a collision with a skateboarder. I flatten myself against a tree, my dance bag swinging wildly. “Dude!”
He tosses a half-hearted apology over his shoulder without slowing down.
“What happened?” Grandma demands. “Are you being mugged? Do I need to call the police? I still have that detective’s number from?—”
“I’m fine,” I laugh, stepping back onto the sidewalk. “Just a near-death experience.”
“Americans,” she scoffs, the word dripping with Parisian disdain despite her having lived here for over fifty years. “So—did you watch the episode?”
I wince, already anticipating her reaction. “Not yet.”
“Quoi?” The word explodes through the phone with such force I have to pull it away from my ear. “Amélie Charlotte Dubois! We had anagreement!”
“I know, I know. But I have an excellent reason.”
“Are you in the hospital? Because anything short of a medical emergency is unacceptable.”
I roll my eyes, though of course she can’t see me. “Remember you said the wise thing about my situation with Linc?”
“I say many wise things, which makes itutterlyimpossible to keep track of them all.”
“Well,” I pause for dramatic effect, “I have a boyfriend.”
There’s a brief silence, then a delighted laugh crackles through the phone. “Fantastique!So you followed my advice!”
“I did.” A smile spreads across my face, my cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. “You were right. Again. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Impossible. My head is already too full of wisdom to fit anything else,” she says, the smugness practically radiating through the phone. “So, tell me.”
