Page 31 of Practice Makes Perfect
Maine grins. “O’Neil’s is calling our names. First round’s on me since you’re basically the reason we won tonight.”
I pull my shirt over my head, weighing my response. Normally, I’d be all over post-game beers. It’s tradition—we win, we celebrate. We lose, we drink to forget. Either way, it usually ends at someone’s apartment or at O’Neil’s, with Maine doing karaoke and Rook hitting on girls way out of his league.
But tonight, the thought of crowding into a noisy bar, fielding congratulations from half-drunk students, and pretending I’m not completely exhausted sounds about as appealing as skating barefoot across broken glass. So as I finish getting dressed, I make my decision.
“I think I’m going to pass,” I say, zipping up my hoodie.
Maine’s face falls like I’ve just told him Christmas is canceled. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, I’m beat. Been a long week.”
“It’s Friday,” Maine points out, as if I might have forgotten what day it is.
I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Have one for me.”
Once outside, the cold air hits me like a slap, but it’s refreshing after the stuffiness of the locker room. Campus is still buzzing with post-game energy, students in red and black streaming toward various parties or O’Neil’s. I keep my head down, not in the mood for fist bumps or high-fives from drunk sophomores.
My apartment’s only a fifteen-minute walk, but as I hit the edge of campus, a different destination calls to me. The glowing sign of the 7-Eleven beckons from across the street, and suddenly I’m hit with a craving so specific it makes me smile.
A Slurpee.
One the size of a small toddler.
It’s a favorite of mine that I haven’t indulged in since the semester started, but after scoring the game-winner and getting saddled with Mike Pep Talk duties, I figure I’ve earned it.
The bell jingles as I push open the door, and I make a beeline for the wall where the Slurpee machines stand in all their glory. Blue Raspberry has been my go-to since I was twelve, when my mom and I would hit whatever gas station was closest to the rink I was playing at and we’d both get a Big Gulp.
But tonight, staring at the row of flavors—Blue Raspberry, Cherry, Coke, some limited-edition green thing that looks radioactive—I find myself hesitating. Maybe it’s time to branch out. Live dangerously. Mix flavors like the rebel I clearly am.
I grab the largest cup—easily comparable to a small bucket—and hover between flavors. What’s best? A layered approach? Or go completely off the rails with that Tropical Lime nonsense?
So absorbed am I in this life-altering decision that I don’t notice someone approaching until they drop something behind me. There’s a soft cursing followed by the crinkling of plastic, and I turn, already bending to help.
And find myself staring directly into the wide-eyed gaze of Em.
eight
EM
As the chipsI’ve just dropped hit the floor, I decide that this is definitely not the trouble I’d planned to find: encountering Lincoln Garcia at 11:15 p.m. in a 7-Eleven while wearing my oldest sweatpants and a stained dance school t-shirt that’s seen better days.
And yet—here we are.
As he turns to look for the source of the sound, I drop into a squat faster than I’ve ever moved in my life, staring intently at the bag of salt and vinegar chips as if it’s the most fascinating archaeological discovery of the century. I hope against hope that he doesn’t recognize me, but the world is far too cruel for that.
“Here, let me help.” Linc crouches down beside me.
“No!” I protest too loudly, then soften my voice. “I mean, I’ve got it.”
My fingers close around the bag, but I remain frozen in position, desperately willing him to disappear. I could stay here all night if necessary, contemplating the mysteries of processed potato snacks while doing everything necessary to avoid eye contact with him.
“Are you planning to live down here now?” His voice carries a hint of amusement. “Because they’ve mopped maybe twice since freshman year.”
I risk a glance up. Mistake. His green eyes are watching me with an expression that’s half-confused, half-entertained. God, why did I have to run into him? After returning from helping Lea, I was sprawled on my couch until the snacks ran out, which is clearly when the universe decided I neededanotherawkward encounter.
I’d decided to go find some trouble.
But nottonight. And nothere. Likethis. Without aplan.
