Page 74 of Practice Makes Perfect
Maine approaches me. “Quite a comeback.” He rubs his ribs with a wince. “Worth getting crushed, I guess.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck. The doctor says nothing’s broken, just bruised.” He grins. “Small price to pay for watching you absolutely embarrass Reynolds.”
“Do you mean the fight or the goal?” I snort, knowing the answer.
“Dude, the goal…” He laughs, then sits beside me in companionable silence, before speaking again. “So… what’s going on with you and Em?”
I feign ignorance. “Em?”
“Don’t give me that shit.” Maine laughs. “You kept making eyes with her in the stands. I thought you guys just hooked up that night at O’Neil’s, but is it more?”
“She’s just a friend,” I say too quickly.
“Right.” His tone makes it clear he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Because I have heaps of ‘just friends’ who magically turn me into a hockey god.”
I feel heat creeping up my neck. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure it’s not.” He pats my shoulder. “See you at early practice tomorrow, lover boy.”
I don’t argue. What would I say? That yes, Em is wearing my jersey, but only because we have an arrangement where I teach her about sex in exchange for… what exactly? The pleasure of her company? The way her eyes light up when she laughs at one of my jokes? The feeling in my chest when she’s nearby?
Fuck.
I sigh. This is getting complicated, and complicated is exactly what I don’t need right now. Not with scouts watching. Not with the team depending on me. Not with Mike MIA and Coach sleepwalking through the season. Em is supposed to be simple. Convenient. Educational. Nothing more.
But despite all that, I can’t deny seeing her in those stands lit a fire in me.
My phone buzzes in my locker, breaking my thoughts. Probably my mom, calling to dissect every second of the game and tell me what the scout might have thought. But when I fish it out, I’m surprised to see a message from the last person I expected.
Mike:
Good game.
I stare at the screen, unsure how to respond. It’s the first contact we’ve had since our fight, and while it’s not exactly an apology, it’s… something. A small crack in the ice between us, and I’m still staring at the message when another text comes through.
Em:
Your swollen lip kinda works for you. Very chic.
A smile spreads across my face despite the sting. I start typing a response to her, leaving Mike’s message for later. Whatever’s happening with Em, I’m not ready to name it. But for the first time in weeks, the pressure doesn’t feel quite so crushing, at least not when she’s watching.
Because sometimes you need to get punched in the face to see what’s right in front of you.
nineteen
EM
I standin front of Grandma Penelope’s apartment door, ostensibly clutching a book I’d borrowed—Simone de Beauvoir’sThe Second Sex—but really, I’m here because my brain feels like it’s been put through a blender set to “hockey player purée.”
Three shallow breaths, and I knock.
The door swings open almost immediately, revealing my grandmother with flour dusting her hands and a knowing smile that makes me instantly regret coming. That smile means she can already see through whatever flimsy excuse I’ve concocted.
“Amélie!” she exclaims, her voice full of delight as she pulls me into a hug that envelops me. “What a wonderful surprise.”
“I brought back your book,” I say, offering the worn paperback like a peace treaty.
