Page 5 of Practice Makes Perfect
I narrow my eyes. “Define ‘vet.’”
“Social media stalking.” Louis crosses his arms. “Make sure they’re not killers…”
“Killers have Instagram as well,” I protest.
He raises an eyebrow, and guilt twists in my stomach. Louis was my rock during those dark days after Derek. When I transferred to his private school in New York for my last two years of high school, he’d made sure no one messed with me, introduced me to his friends, and never once made me feel like the broken girl I thought I was.
I sigh dramatically. “Fine. But only because I was already planning to thoroughly investigate anyone remotely interesting on social media.”
“Deal.”
He seems to perk up at that. “Do you have anyone in mind?”
The question catches me off guard. For a split second, an image flashes in my mind: Linc Garcia in my stats class, his buzzed dark hair, green eyes, and the perpetual smirk that makes half the women on campus dissolve into giggling puddles.
I’ve caught myself watching him more than once, noting how he slouches in his chair but somehow still looks attentive, the way his t-shirts stretch across his shoulders, how he actually takes notes instead of playing on his phone like most of the other guys.
But Louis plays soccer at his university. He knows the hockey players from various intercollegiate athletic events, including Linc, and telling Louis I’m even remotely interested in a guy with Linc’s reputation would confirm every fear he has about me dating again.
“No one specific,” I lie. “Just keeping my options open.”
Louis doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Right.”
two
LINC
Mario Kart isthe ultimate bullshit detector.
Playing a game online with some of the hockey guys, I can tell everything about a person based on how they react when hit with a blue shell. Some people—like Declan—take it with a philosophical sigh. Others—like Maine—throw their controllers across the room and scream profanities.
Me? I’m somewhere in the middle. I don’ttotallylose my shit, but I do get personally offended when that spiky blue bastard homes in on me. Kind of like right now, as my Yoshi careens off Rainbow Road thanks to a blue shell fired by Maine driving as Bowser.
“Screw you, Maine!” I shout at the TV. “Just because you can’t drive doesn’t mean you have to take the rest of us down!”
The screen splits into four as we cross the finish line. Declan’s Wario takes first, Maine’s Bowser comes in second, and I finish mid-table. The computer players fill out the rest, but they don’t matter at all. What matters is I was the last human over the line, so I now have to buy the first round at O’Neil’s tonight.
My phone vibrates against the coffee table just as Declan’s victory animation plays. I grab it, and it’s the hockey chat—not the big one with the entire team, but our smaller group: me,Maine, Declan (even though he’s left the team), Rook, and a select few others.
We created it last year when Mike got hurt and went all sullen, and since then we’ve used it to coordinate things away from Mike’s eyes and occasionally bitch about him when he’s being painful. And, if I’m being honest, that’s most of the time.
Maine:
Anyone heard from Mike today?
Rook:
LINC DON’T FORGET TO TELL HIM ABOUT THE LATE PRACTICE.
Declan:
Why are you always yelling?
Rook:
CAPS LOCK BROKEN. JK I’M JUST EXCITED FOR LIFE!!!!!
Maine:
