Page 55 of Practice Makes Perfect
In fact, it takes all my control not to throw a pot at him or take a swing. “Food’s ready,” I say flatly, pushing away from the counter. “Help yourselves.”
“Linc—” Maine starts, but I’m already heading for the door.
“I need some air,” I say, grabbing my jacket from the hook.
I don’t look back as I step into the hallway, closing the door behind me. If I stay, I might do something I’ll regret. Like punch Mike. Or worse, tell him how much his words just echoed what my own brain has been telling me since I was twelve.
That I’ve got talent but not enough drive, that I’m good but not good enough.
fourteen
LINC
I drivein my two-decade-old Dodge Charger with no destination in mind, taking random turns and hitting every orange light like they’re personal challenges. My knuckles are white against the steering wheel as Mike’s words play on repeat in my head.
You’ve spent the last three years being mediocre.
The radio blares something poppy and upbeat that’s completely at odds with the storm brewing inside me. I flip the stations until I find something with screeching guitars and pounding drums, which is much preferable in my current mood.
You only got the title because I’m off the ice.
I’ve been driving for almost an hour, letting muscle memory pilot the car while my brain spins out like a rookie on bad ice. All the pressure I thought I’d been feeling—my mom, the situation with Mike, the co-captaincy—is nothing compared to the pile of shit Mike just heaped upon me.
“Fucking asshole,” I mutter, not for the first time.
A while later, when the anger starts to subside, I finally tune back into my surroundings. With a small shock, I realize I’ve somehow wound up in Trenton. Not exactly a scenic location,but better than my apartment where Mike is probably still stewing.
My stomach roars, and I realize that I never ate dinner. And for a guy who burns twice as many calories as the average college kid, that’s not really sustainable. I’ve got a double practice in the morning, so despite my anger, I know I need the fuel or I’m going to slip up.
And that would just give Mike even more ammunition.
The dashboard clock reads 9:37 p.m., so there should still be something open. I keep driving until I find some fast food, and soon enough I find a strip mall. Most of the businesses along this strip are closed, but two are open: a Chinese takeout place with a flickering neon sign and a dance studio that has lights on.
I pull into the nearly empty parking lot, already planning my order, when something catches my eye. Or rather, someone.
Em.
And she looks gorgeous.
She stands in the center of the studio, visible through the large front windows. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and she’s dressed in all black—tight leggings that leave little to the imagination and a crop top.
I kill the engine but leave the keys in the ignition, all thoughts of food suddenly relegated to a second-tier priority. I know I should drive away, and that there’s no reason to sit here like some creep watching her through the window without her knowing, but before I can restart the car, Em begins to move.
And holy shit.
I’ve seen bodies in motion my entire life. Hockey is all about fluidity and power, about making impossible maneuvers look effortless, and hockey players are some of the most fluid athletes on Earth. But this… this is something else entirely.
Em dances with a precision that makes my breath catch. Each movement flows into the next, her body telling a storyI can’t quite understand but can’t look away from either. She spins, arching backward until her head nearly touches her feet, then snaps up with a sharpness that makes my spine tingle in sympathy.
I’m so transfixed that when there’s a sudden knock on my window, I nearly jump out of my skin, letting out a sound that’s embarrassingly close to a yelp.
An older Asian man peers in at me, his face partially illuminated by the distant streetlight. He holds up a white paper bag, gesturing for me to roll down the window. Heart still hammering, I hit the button, and cold air rushes in as the window slides down.
“Last donuts,” the man says, thrusting the bag toward me. “We close soon. You want?”
It takes a moment for my brain to process that he’s from the Chinese restaurant and is offering me fried donuts, not accusing me of stalking or loitering. And, for a moment, I wonder if this is the universe offering me a sign that I should keep watching Em, because my food problem just got solved.
“Uh, thank you,” I stammer.
