Page 118 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Yeah,” I say, relief washing over me. “It really does.”
She smiles at me. “Now go to bed before you step on my wet canvas and die tragically young.”
I glance down to find I’m indeed centimeters away from ruining what appears to be a portrait of a woman with kaleidoscope eyes. “Your concern is touching.”
“What can I say? I’m a giver.” Lea makes a shooing motion. “Seriously though, go. You’ve got that glazed look you get when you’re running on empty.”
“Fine, fine.” I navigate the art obstacle course toward my bedroom. “But if I wake up with paint in my hair again, we’re having words.”
“That was one time!” she calls after me. “And it washed out…eventually… by the third time!”
I close my bedroom door and collapse onto my bed without bothering to change. My limbs feel deliciously heavy from dance, and my mind is already drifting toward sleep, filled with pleasant thoughts of watching Linc tomorrow, cheering as he scores, seeing his face light up when he spots me in the stands.
I fall asleep with a smile on my face, feeling more content than I have in years. Everything is finally falling into place—my dance, studies, my friendships, my relationship with Linc. Even the prospect of introducing him to my family fills me with more excitement than fear.
For once, everything in my life feels perfectly aligned—like the universe has decided I’ve finally suffered enough and deserves something good. If only I’d remembered that the universe has a wicked sense of humor and an impeccable sense of timing.
twenty-nine
LINC
I yankthe laces through the eyelets of my skates for what must be the fourteenth or fifteenth time, twisting them with enough force to make my fingers ache. Still not tight enough. Too loose on the left foot. The pressure needs to be even—exactlyeven—because pre-game superstitions are a bitch.
“What’s wrong with your laces, bro?” Maine asks, already suited up and leaning against his locker.
“They’re conspiring against me.” I pull them harder, the thin cord biting into my palms. “Secret plan to make me blow the game.”
“Yeah, that’s definitely the determining factor in beating Brown.” He snorts. “Not, you know, actual skill or teamwork.”
“Or goals and saves,” Rook says from nearby, but then shuts up when I glare at him. “Yeah, okay, you’re still pissed at me…”
I grunt in response, focusing on getting the tension perfect. I’ve been off all day—sleep-deprived, irritable, and now myfuckinglaces are betraying me. Classic pre-Brown jitters, amplified by about a thousand since Coach’s “pep talk” earlier mentioned scouts might be in the stands.
The locker room door swings open, and Simon calls out. “Yo, Garcia,” he says. “Your parents are outside. Your mom’s asking for you.”
My fingers freeze mid-pull and I close my eyes. “I already had lunch with them. Isn’t that enough family bonding for one day?”
Maine pats me on the back. “Your mom seemed pretty amped when I saw her earlier. She said something about needing to see you before the big game.”
Of course she does. Mom probably has another visualization exercise for me. Or worse, more “tips” she’s gleaned from watching professional games that have absolutely nothing to do with college-level play. At lunch, Dad noticed how her constant hockey talk was making my jaw clench and changed the subject.
“Fine.” I stand up, my skates still feeling wrong—too tight on the right, too loose on the left. “If I’m not back in five minutes, send a search party.”
Maine laughs as I stomp toward the door, narrowly avoiding a collision with Rook, who’s been keeping his head down since his party derailed the practice with the freshman the other day. He mumbles something that might be an apology as I push past him.
The hallway outside the locker room is eerily quiet compared to the usual pre-game chaos. Most students haven’t arrived yet—we’re still a good forty minutes from start time—but my parents are punctual to the point of absurdity for anything hockey-related.
Mom spots me immediately, her face lighting up like I’m six years old and she’s watching my first time on the ice. She’s wearing what I’ve come to think of as her “hockey mom uniform”—Pine Barren Hockey sweatshirt with my number on the back, and she’s practically vibrating with excitement.
Dad stands beside her, looking simultaneously proud and slightly embarrassed, like he knows they’re too early and tooenthusiastic but has long since given up trying to modulate Mom’s hockey fervor. I don’t blame him, deep down, because my mom is a hurricane of energy that isn’t easily channelled.
“Lincoln!” Mom rushes forward, pulling me into a hug despite my full gear. “We wanted to wish you good luck before you get too focused on warm-ups!”
“Thanks, Mom.” I accept the hug stiffly, the bulky shoulder pads making it awkward. “But I really need to get back soon.”
“Oh, of course, of course!” She steps back, but keeps hold of my arms, examining me like she’s checking my equipment herself. “Just remember what I said—their right defenseman always shifts his weight to his left foot before he commits to a check. If you notice that, you can fake left and break right.”
I nod mechanically, the way I’ve been nodding at her hockey advice since high school, even when she has no idea what she’s talking about. Over her shoulder, Dad gives me an apologetic half-smile and a small shrug that sayswhat’re ya gonna do?
