Page 25 of Practice Makes Perfect
Her gratitude arrives in the form of fourteen heart emojis and a promise to buy me coffee for a month. I stare longingly at my paused reality show, my couch, my entire plan to avoid the world—specifically any world containing six feet of hockey player named Lincoln Garcia—and sigh.
“Oh, what cruel twists of fate,” I mutter as I haul myself off the couch.
I head to the bathroom and assemble an emergency period kit: tampons, pads, Advil, then I go to her drawers and get a pair of clean underwear and a pair of jeans. It all goes into a satchel bag, and less than a minute later, I’m walking across campus like the period fairy godmother.
The hockey rink comes into view, and I text Lea:
Here. Where are you?
Her response buzzes immediately:
Section C, row 12, seat 5. CAN’T MOVE.
I type back:
Can’t you just tell Declan?
Reply:
NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT.
Right. The whole “I’m dying of embarrassment over normal bodily functions” thing. I enter the rink, the blast of cold air hitting me like a slap. The place is packed to the gills as the second period (ha, irony) gets underway, a sea of red and black in every direction. For a brief second, I wonder where Linc is?—
Nope. Not going there.
Focus on the mission, Em:
Section C isn’t hard to find, but navigating to row twelve proves challenging. People are already in their seats, meaning I have to squeeze past countless knees and feet, muttering apologies that get swallowed by the music blasting through the speakers and the occasionalbangof a player getting checked against the boards.
“Excuse me—sorry—just need to—thanks—excuse me?—”
I squeeze between a pair of dudes nursing plastic cups of beer, only to find my path blocked by an entire fraternity. They’re all wearing matching red hoodies with Greek letters I can’t decipher. One guy has his face painted half red, half black, and he’s clutching a massive foam finger.
And then someone scores.
Everyone in the arena leaps to their feet, and frat boy beer rains down on me. The crowd roars so loudly my eardrums threaten to find new employment, and I nearly topple backward, grabbing onto the closest solid object—which turns out to be Face Paint Guy’s shoulder.
“Sorry!” I yell, but he doesn’t hear me over the announcer’s voice booming through the speakers.
“WHAT A SLAPSHOT FROM NUMBER SEVENTEEN, LINCOLN GARCIA! TOP LEFT CORNER! THAT’S THE FIRST GOAL OF THE NIGHT, FOLKS!”
My stomach gets a strange gooey feeling at the mention of his name. Despite my better judgment, I find myself turning toward the ice, where a pile of hockey players are tackling a figure I instantly recognize, even with all the padding and helmet and testosterone.
Linc.
He’s beaming through his face mask, his teammates slapping his back and pulling him into hugs that look more like collisions. His entire body radiates joy, and for a moment—just a brief, traitorous moment—I remember how it felt to be the cause of that smile.
That’s when it happens.
His head turns, scanning the crowd, and then—as if guided by some cosmic joke at my expense—his eyes land directly on me. Even from this distance, I can feel the intensity of his gaze. His smile widens, and he lifts his gloved hand in a wave.
At me.
In front of everyone.
My face heats to approximately the temperature of the sun’s surface. I freeze, unable to wave back, unable to do anything except stand there like a deer in headlights, surrounded by thousands of people who are undoubtedly wondering who the idiot is that caught Linc Garcia’s attention.
Then, to my absolute horror, Linc starts banging his hockey stick against the ice.Tap-tap-tap. His teammates join in, their sticks creating a rhythmic percussion that echoes throughout the arena.Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. And then—because this nightmare apparently needs to be more mortifying—the crowd starts stomping their feet to match the rhythm.
