Page 135 of Practice Makes Perfect
“I promise,” I say, meaning it more than I’ve meant anything in my life. “I want to be there for you, Em. And I want to let you be there for me. I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of not being enough,” I admit. “Not good enough as a captain, not good enough as your boyfriend, not good enough for the NHL. I’ve spent my life trying to live up to everyone’s expectations, and when I found out my mom had been pulling strings, it was like—like the floor dropped out from under me.”
Her expression softens. “You know that’s not how I see you, right? I don’t need you to be perfect. I just need you to be honest.”
“I can do honest.” I take a tentative step forward. “Honestly? I love you. And I want the chance to make this up to you.”
That finally breaks through. The defensive posture she’s maintained since I arrived melts away. She closes the distance between us, reaching for my hand, which I give her.
“You’re still an idiot,” she says, tugging me closer.
“An idiot who loves you.”
“Yeah.” She smiles up at me. “I love you too.”
When our lips meet, it feels like coming home. She tastes like blue raspberry Slurpee with a hint of vodka, and I’m desperate to hold onto this moment, to prove how sorry I am with every touch. My hands frame her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks as I pour every ounce of regret and love into the kiss.
When she pulls back, her eyes are bright. “So,” she says with a mischievous smile. “What exactly are you planning to do about the team situation?”
I groan, resting my forehead against hers. “Grovel. Extensively. And hope Coach doesn’t punish me with endless laps around campus.”
“I’ll help you figure it out,” she promises, fingers tracing patterns on my chest. “But I think we have more immediate priorities at the moment.”
“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow, even as my pulse quickens.
“Mmm. Proper reconciliation requires a thorough makeup session.” She steps backward toward her bedroom, pulling me with her. “If you want…”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I murmur, following her eagerly.
As Em leads me toward her bedroom, her hand warm in mine, Lea’s door cracks open. She pokes her head out, wielding her phone like a weapon.
“Do I need to go to war, Em?” Lea asks, her gaze flicking between us with the intensity of a tennis referee. “The cavalry’s one text away.”
Em shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “I think the execution can wait for the time being.”
Lea sighs dramatically. Her expression shifts to something wickedly mischievous. “Guess I’ll need to turn my music up. Way up.” She raises an eyebrow. “Or maybe I should call Dec over and we can have a competition to see who can be louder.”
“Please don’t,” Em groans, her cheeks flushing.
“No promises,” Lea singsongs before disappearing back into her room.
Em turns to me, embarrassment and desire warring on her face. “Maybe we should be…quiet?”
I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I make no guarantees where you’re concerned.”
I laugh, even as Em tugs me away from her roommate’s threats and toward the promise of reconciliation. Second chances don’t come around often in life, and this one feels like the most important thing I’ve ever won—better than any game, any title, any trophy.
And I’m not about to fumble it.
epilogue
EM
One minute remainson the clock, and I swear I can feel every heartbeat in my chest like a countdown timer. The scoreboard glows 4-3, Devils ahead, but Boston’s offense has been relentless this period. I grip the edge of my seat, the hard plastic cutting into my palms.
“Come on, Linc,” I whisper, my voice lost in the roar of the Prudential Center.
