Page 59 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Seven works.” She gathers her bag and reaches for the door handle. She starts to shrug off the sweatshirt. “Here, let me give this back?—”
“Keep it,” I say, maybe a little too quickly. “It’s, uh, cold out. And it looks good on you.” The last part slips out before I can stop it.
Em pauses, her hand on the sleeve. A soft blush colors her cheeks. “Oh. Um, thanks, Linc. Are you sure?”
“Yeah, totally.” I try for a casual shrug. “They hand them out like candy to hockey team members. I’ve got plenty.”
“OK.” She smiles, a genuine, heart-melting smile that makes my stomach do a little flip. “Thanks again. I’ll see you then.”
“Sure, yeah.” I find myself nodding a bit too enthusiastically. “Do you want me to wait until you get to your car?”
The soft smile she gives me makes my chest tighten. “Thanks, that would be nice.”
After she steps out, still wearing my sweatshirt, I watch her walk to her small blue hatchback, illuminated periodically by the parking lot’s flickering security lights. She glances back once, lifting her hand in a small wave before sliding into the driver’s seat. And, as her taillights disappear around the corner, I sit motionless.
I almost kissed her.
Iwantedto kiss her.
And judging by the way she was leaning toward me, she wanted it too.
The thought sends a confusing mix of emotions through me—desire, frustration, and something that feels uncomfortably like guilt. We set clear boundaries for our arrangement. The third rule: no feelings. This is supposed to be educational, not emotional, and she’s recovering from some trauma.
But as I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot, I can’t help feeling we’ve already crossed an invisible line. The rules we established are starting to feel less like boundaries and more like obstacles—arbitrary barriers against something that feels increasingly natural.
Is it just that I’m caught up in a moment of vulnerability? Em shared something deeply personal with me right after I’d had my own emotional overload, and maybe my brain is just mixing up intimacy with attraction. Or is it something more?
I start the car and turn onto the road back toward campus, thoughts churning. Whatever’s happening between Em and me is becoming more complicated than our simple agreementsuggested. The truth is, I enjoy being around her, talking with her, learning about her—lesson or no lesson.
And that scares the shit out of me.
Because with everything else in my life teetering on the edge of disaster—Mike’s resentment, Coach’s expectations, my mom’s dreams (pressure!) for me to play in the NHL—the last thing I need is to complicate the one thing that was supposed to be straightforward.
But as I drive through the night, heading back to an apartment where my once-best friend probably still hates me, I find myself counting the days until our next lesson in a few days. If nothing else, at least the situation with Em is enjoyable and something to look forward to.
And despite everything, I can’t bring myself to regret it.
fifteen
EM
I’ve beendeath-gripping my steering wheel for twenty minutes straight, and my fingers have progressed from tingling to full-on cramping. The rational part of my brain knows I should probably relax my hold before I permanently fuse to the vinyl, but the emotional part can’t seem to get the message through.
“You told him. You told him everything.” My voice sounds strange in the quiet car, tight and panicky. “It was meant to be no strings, no feels, and you told him…”
The road stretches ahead of me, streetlights illuminating patches of asphalt in rhythmic intervals. I’ve driven this route between Trenton and campus countless times, usually with my mind occupied by choreography or lesson plans. Tonight, my thoughts are a hurricane, with Derek and Linc battling for center stage.
A truck blares its horn as it whizzes past, and I realize I’ve been unconsciously slowing down to a crawl. I press the gas pedal and force myself to focus on driving like a functional human being. But that’s easier said than done when I’ve just verbally vomited my deepest trauma all over Linc.
The weird part isn’t even that I told him—it’s that I don’t regret it. The relief washing through me feels like the first deep breath after being underwater too long. And just as mind-blowing was his reaction, the way his jaw tightened and his eyes darkened.
Not with pity—I couldn’t have handled pity—but with raw, protective anger.
Like he wanted to hunt Derek down himself.
“And why does that make you feel all tingly?” I ask my rearview mirror, as if it might have answers. “There’s something wrong with you, Dubois.”
The memory of leaning toward him in his car hits me again—that magnetic pull, the way his gaze dropped to my lips. We almost kissed. And not a lesson kiss, but a real one, one inclearbreach of rule number three. But the rules are starting to feel arbitrary, like speed limits on an empty highway at 3 a.m.
