Page 12 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

Her gratitude arrives in the form of fourteen heart emojis and a promise to buy me coffee for a month. I stare longingly at my paused reality show, my couch, my entire plan to avoid the world—specifically any world containing six feet of hockey player named Lincoln Garcia—and sigh.

“Oh, what cruel twists of fate,” I mutter as I haul myself off the couch.

I head to the bathroom and assemble an emergency period kit: tampons, pads, Advil, then I go to her drawers and get a pair of clean underwear and a pair of jeans. It all goes into a satchel bag, and less than a minute later, I’m walking across campus like the period fairy godmother.

The hockey rink comes into view, and I text Lea:

Here. Where are you?

Her response buzzes immediately:

Section C, row 12, seat 5. CAN’T MOVE.

I type back:

Can’t you just tell Declan?

Reply:

NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Right. The whole “I’m dying of embarrassment over normal bodily functions” thing.

I enter the rink, the blast of cold air hitting me like a slap.

The place is packed to the gills as the second period (ha, irony) gets underway, a sea of red and black in every direction.

For a brief second, I wonder where Linc is?—

Nope. Not going there.

Focus on the mission, Em:

Section C isn’t hard to find, but navigating to row twelve proves challenging.

People are already in their seats, meaning I have to squeeze past countless knees and feet, muttering apologies that get swallowed by the music blasting through the speakers and the occasional bang of a player getting checked against the boards.

“Excuse me—sorry—just need to—thanks—excuse me?—”

I squeeze between a pair of dudes nursing plastic cups of beer, only to find my path blocked by an entire fraternity. They’re all wearing matching red hoodies with Greek letters I can’t decipher. One guy has his face painted half red, half black, and he’s clutching a massive foam finger.

And then someone scores.

Everyone in the arena leaps to their feet, and frat boy beer rains down on me. The crowd roars so loudly my eardrums threaten to find new employment, and I nearly topple backward, grabbing onto the closest solid object—which turns out to be Face Paint Guy’s shoulder.

“Sorry!” I yell, but he doesn’t hear me over the announcer’s voice booming through the speakers.

“WHAT A SLAPSHOT FROM NUMBER SEVENTEEN, LINCOLN GARCIA! TOP LEFT CORNER! THAT’S THE FIRST GOAL OF THE NIGHT, FOLKS!”

My stomach gets a strange gooey feeling at the mention of his name. Despite my better judgment, I find myself turning toward the ice, where a pile of hockey players are tackling a figure I instantly recognize, even with all the padding and helmet and testosterone.

Linc.

He’s beaming through his face mask, his teammates slapping his back and pulling him into hugs that look more like collisions. His entire body radiates joy, and for a moment—just a brief, traitorous moment—I remember how it felt to be the cause of that smile.

That’s when it happens.

His head turns, scanning the crowd, and then—as if guided by some cosmic joke at my expense—his eyes land directly on me. Even from this distance, I can feel the intensity of his gaze. His smile widens, and he lifts his gloved hand in a wave.

At me.

In front of everyone.

My face heats to approximately the temperature of the sun’s surface. I freeze, unable to wave back, unable to do anything except stand there like a deer in headlights, surrounded by thousands of people who are undoubtedly wondering who the idiot is that caught Linc Garcia’s attention.

Then, to my absolute horror, Linc starts banging his hockey stick against the ice.

Tap-tap-tap . His teammates join in, their sticks creating a rhythmic percussion that echoes throughout the arena.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap . And then—because this nightmare apparently needs to be more mortifying—the crowd starts stomping their feet to match the rhythm.

Tap-tap-tap-stomp-stomp-stomp.

The entire time, his eyes remain locked on mine, that smile still in place.

And then he points at me, causing everyone in the arena to look at me.

I want the ice to crack open and swallow me whole. Instead, I turn away so quickly I almost give myself whiplash, pushing through the last few spectators to reach Lea, who’s sitting rigidly in her seat, knees pressed tightly together, looking pale and distressed.

“Oh, thank god,” she whispers when she sees me.

“Here,” I hand her the bag. “I’ve got you covered.”

Lea clutches the satchel to her chest. “You’re a lifesaver.”

I glance over my shoulder. Linc is back in position, focused on the game again.

Phew .

Glad to be anonymous again, I focus on Lea. “Bathroom, now,” I say.

As she nods, the crowd around us groans collectively as the opposing team nearly scores.

No one pays attention to us as I help Lea stand, positioning myself strategically behind her as we shuffle toward the aisle.

Hopefully, if she has leaked through, we can sort the situation without anyone ever knowing.

“Walk casually,” she hisses. “But also hurry.”

“Those are contradictory instructions,” I point out, but I do my best to comply.

I keep pace behind her while monitoring her backside for any visible evidence of disaster, and we make it to the bathroom without incident. Lea disappears into a stall, the satchel clutched in a white-knuckled grip, while I lean against the sink, finally exhaling.

“So that was hot…” Lea calls from behind the stall door.

I say nothing.

“You know, Dec says they have a tradition of doing that when they like a girl…”

Nope, not going there.

“I swear he was pointing at?—”

“I don’t want to know,” I cut her off.

“Fine, fine.” The toilet flushes, and Lea emerges. “Crisis averted.”

I nod toward her jeans. “All good?”

“All good, thanks.” She washes her hands. “So the Linc thing…”

I roll my eyes and sigh.

“Dec says Linc has never done that before for any girl…”

I feel my expression shuttering. “Lea…”

“What? I’m just saying. It’s objectively hot.” She dries her hands, giving me a side-eye. “Come back to Dec’s apartment after the game? Linc might be there…”

I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’ve got a pile of reality TV waiting for me.”

“Reality TV over real life,” Lea sighs dramatically. “Typical.”

I shrug and we exit the bathroom, and I make the mistake of glancing toward the ice, where the players are setting up for a face-off. Linc is there, focused and intense, completely in his element. For a split second, I allow myself to admire how graceful he looks on the ice.

Then I mentally slap myself. “Have fun,” I say.

Lea’s gaze lingers on me, clearly aware I’d been looking at Linc. “Thanks, Em.”

I give her a quick hug and, as I walk toward the exit, I resist the urge to look back at the ice.

The cool air outside feels like freedom, and I take a deep breath, letting the tension drain from my shoulders.

My dorm—with its gloriously mindless television and complete lack of gorgeous hockey players—is calling me.

Tonight, I’m answering that call with enthusiasm.

Just as I get outside the arena, my phone rings. I glance at the screen and groan, then answer.

“Hello, Grandma,” I say, holding the phone slightly away from my ear in anticipation of her volume.

“AMéLIE!” she booms. “YOU WON’T BELIEVE IT! TYLER WALKED IN ON MADISON IN THE SHOWER!”

“Grandma,” I whine, “I literally paused the episode to go help Lea.”

“OH!” She still hasn’t adjusted her volume. “WELL, YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT TRISTAN?—”

“No!” I interrupt desperately. “No more spoilers! I’m begging you! And remember you don’t have to scream into the phone!”

She laughs, the sound warm and familiar. “Fine, fine. So what did Lea need help with?”

I sigh with relief at the change of topic. “I had to deliver some period supplies to Lea at the hockey game.”

She sighs nostalgically, as if menstruation is something she misses. “Did you at least get to see some handsome hockey boys while you were there?”

My stomach twists. “I was in and out.”

“Hmm.” There’s a pause, and I can practically hear her narrowing her eyes. “You sound strange.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, like you’re sad. You had the same tone a few weeks ago when you and Louis came back from your walk. What’s wrong, ma petite ?”

I kick at a pebble on the sidewalk. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired from work today.”

“You work too hard. College is supposed to be fun, you know. When I was your age, I was dancing on tables in Paris.”

“Is that before or after you met Grandpa?”

“During, while holding a cigarette and a glass of wine,” she says with wicked delight. “How do you think I caught his attention?”

I laugh, picturing my proper grandmother in her youth, scandalizing the masses. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So what are your plans for the rest of the night?”

“More TV,” I say.

She makes a disapproving noise. “You should be out. Go find some trouble.”

After she hangs up, I stand motionless on the sidewalk, replaying her words.

Go find some trouble.

I’ve been desperately searching for a nice, respectable boy—one who won’t expect me to immediately jump into bed with him, one who might be patient and understanding and take things slow.

But despite Louis’ dating app screening and Lea’s valiant wingwoman efforts over the past two weeks, I’ve struck out.

Go find some trouble.

But then there’s Linc.

The way he looked at me tonight. The way he singled me out. The way his lips felt against mine. But even as the idea starts to form in my mind, I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory. No. I ran out on him. He probably thinks I’m a total freak. Why would he even give me a second thought?

And yet…

He waved at me. He pointed at me. In front of everyone.

The twist in my stomach changes from anxiety to something warmer, more intriguing. Maybe there is another way. Maybe instead of finding some random nice guy to understand and be patient with me, I need someone I already have chemistry with…

Someone like Linc.

“OK, trouble, you’re on,” I say. “But not tonight…”