Page 28 of Practice Makes Perfect
The way he looked at me tonight. The way he singled me out. The way his lips felt against mine. But even as the idea starts to form in my mind, I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory. No. I ran out on him. He probably thinks I’m a total freak. Why would he even give me a second thought?
And yet…
He waved at me. He pointed at me. In front of everyone.
The twist in my stomach changes from anxiety to something warmer, more intriguing. Maybe thereisanother way. Maybe instead of finding some random nice guy to understand and be patient with me, I need someone I already have chemistry with…
Someone like Linc.
“OK, trouble, you’re on,” I say. “But not tonight…”
seven
LINC
The locker roomsmells less like victory and more like sweaty equipment that two dozen guys have just peeled off—which is to say, it smells like absolute ass. And, as I peel off my soaked jersey and add it to the mountain of laundry destined for our equipment manager, Phil, I can’t wait for a shower.
“Two goals for the co-captain, baby!” Maine’s voice booms across the room as he slaps my shoulder hard enough to bruise. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
“One goal, one assist,” I correct him, wincing as I rotate my shoulder. He has the strength of a grizzly bear and approximately the same social awareness.
“Like there’s a difference.” He waves his hand dismissively. “You’re the reason we won, man.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure Rook’s the reason we won.” I nod toward our freshman goalie, who’s currently doing what appears to be a victory dance involving gyrating hips and excessive arm movements by his locker. “Twenty-seven saves.”
“Twenty-eight,” Rook shouts without missing a beat in whatever ritual he’s performing. “I’m counting that shot off your ass in the second period, Garcia.”
“My ass does not count as a save.” I toss a balled-up sock in his direction. “And if you keep dancing like that, you’ll pull something important.”
“Twenty-nine!” Rook catches the sock and throws it back with surprising accuracy. “The ladies love these moves.”
“We’re yet to see you with one lady, jackass,” Schmidt chimes in. “So how about tick that off before you start talking ladies. Plural.”
I tune out and reach for my phone as others keep hurling jokes at Rook. It’s the post-game ritual I’ve maintained since freshman year. First, check messages. Second, shower. Third, decide if I’m going out to celebrate or head home to ice whatever body part is currently screaming at me loudest.
My screen lights up with five text notifications.
Deep down, I’m hoping one of them might be from Em.
But alas, not Em.
What the hell was I expecting after pulling a stunt like that? A congratulatory text from the girl who looked at me like I’d just announced my plan to murder puppies in front of the entire arena?
It had seemed like some cosmic moment—scoring that first goal, then looking up and seeing her there. So I’d tapped my stick against the ice in rhythm, the time-honored Pine Barren hockey tradition when you see a girl you’re into.
A move I’ve seen plenty of teammates do, but never tried myself.
Because, honestly, I’ve never had to.
The whole team and the whole crowd had joined in… except one person. The person the entire thing was hinging on. Because, as tradition goes, if the girl who’s the subject of the spectacle starts clapping as well, it’s as good as a ‘yes’ in response to the obvious question, and the panties will be off within the hour.
But she’d just stood there, looking mortified. Her cheeks had turned scarlet before she’d spun around to face away from the ice. The crowd had let out an audible “ooooh” of disappointment, and it may as well have been accompanied by a full-on rom-com rejection soundtrack.
So now I just feel like shit about embarrassing her as well.
I should forget about her, because she’s clearly not interested. But the reality is Em isn’t just another hookup that didn’t work out. There was something about her—something in the way she laughed, something in those few amazing moments before everything went sideways.
With a sigh, I go back to my phone, and see all the texts are from my mom. I tap it open and there they are: Mom and Dad, bundled in Devils hoodies despite being in their living room 300 miles away, each giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up to the camera.
