Page 14 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

eight

EM

And yet—here we are.

As he turns to look for the source of the sound, I drop into a squat faster than I’ve ever moved in my life, staring intently at the bag of salt and vinegar chips as if it’s the most fascinating archaeological discovery of the century.

I hope against hope that he doesn’t recognize me, but the world is far too cruel for that.

“Here, let me help.” Linc crouches down beside me.

“No!” I protest too loudly, then soften my voice. “I mean, I’ve got it.”

My fingers close around the bag, but I remain frozen in position, desperately willing him to disappear. I could stay here all night if necessary, contemplating the mysteries of processed potato snacks while doing everything necessary to avoid eye contact with him.

“Are you planning to live down here now?” His voice carries a hint of amusement. “Because they’ve mopped maybe twice since freshman year.”

I risk a glance up. Mistake. His green eyes are watching me with an expression that’s half-confused, half-entertained.

God, why did I have to run into him? After returning from helping Lea, I was sprawled on my couch until the snacks ran out, which is clearly when the universe decided I needed another awkward encounter.

I’d decided to go find some trouble.

But not tonight . And not here . Like this . Without a plan .

All I’d wanted tonight was some snacks!

“I’m just really invested in these chips,” I mutter, finally standing up and clutching the bag to my chest like a shield.

“Clearly.” His lips twitch. “Though I’m not sure they’re worth the level of commitment you’re showing.”

I take a step back. “Well, this has been super fun, but I should?—”

“Em.” He steps into my retreat path. “You don’t have to run away from me.”

“I’m not running,” I protest automatically. “I’m strategically relocating.”

“Look,” he says softly, “I won’t even look at you if that helps.”

True to his word, he turns his attention to the Slurpee machine behind and begins filling his cup.

With his gaze averted, I permit myself a proper look at him.

His profile is unfairly perfect—strong jaw, straight nose, and those stupidly long eyelashes that boys always seem to get without even trying.

His black hair is still damp from what I assume was a post-game shower, and a slight flush lingers on his cheekbones. He looks good. Too good. But there’s a tiredness in his posture that wasn’t there that night at his apartment, a subtle slump to his shoulders that speaks of exhaustion.

When he finishes filling his cup—it’s genuinely the size of a small bucket—he glances back at me and catches me staring. I quickly pretend to be fascinated by the nutrition facts on my chip bag.

“You know those have enough salt to preserve a body, right?” he says, nodding at my chips.

“Says the guy drinking sugar with food coloring,” I counter, gesturing at his Blue Raspberry monstrosity.

He grins, and I hate how it makes my stomach flip. “We won tonight. I’ve earned this.”

“So have I. I worked a double shift, saved a friend in need, and dealt with Malia breaking up with Kent, which sucked all the salty tears out of me…”

His eyes narrow. “What?”

“I should punch you for that stick-tapping stunt, by the way,” I say, ignoring his question. “The entire arena was staring at me.”

Something changes in his expression—a lightening, a relaxing of tension I hadn’t fully registered until it disappeared. “But you’re not actually mad.”

It’s not a question, and I’m irritated that he can read me so easily. “I didn’t say that.”

“Your face did.” He takes a long sip of his Slurpee. “Besides, if you were really mad, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m talking to you by choice. This could just be a survival tactic in response to being cornered in the snack aisle.”

He laughs, a sound that makes my treacherous pulse quicken. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, but you wouldn’t answer my texts, so…”

“It was actually kind of cute,” I admit, then immediately regret it when his smile widens. “In a completely mortifying way.”

“I’ll take cute-but-mortifying.” He gestures toward the counter. “Can I buy your chips? As a peace offering?”

“Fine,” I say. “But this doesn’t mean I forgive you for the public humiliation.”

“Noted.”

We walk to the register together, and I’m acutely aware of how close he is—close enough that I can smell his cologne mixing with the scent of soap. It’s distracting. A minute later, after we’ve completed the purchase, we exit into the chilly night air together.

We linger awkwardly on the sidewalk, the neon 7-Eleven sign casting everything in a weird blue-pink glow. Linc takes another long drink of his Slurpee, and I can’t help remembering how it felt when he pressed those lips against my mouth two weeks ago.

“So,” he says, “are you heading back to your dorm?”

“Yeah.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Thrilling Friday night plans: salt and vinegar chips and texting my grandmother about reality TV.”

The silence stretches between us, filled with everything we’re not saying. Linc shifts his Slurpee to his other hand.

“Look, Em—” he says at the same time as I say, “I should really?—”

We both laugh.

“You first,” I say.

“Can I walk you back to your dorm? I’d like to talk about the other night.”

My mouth goes dry. This is precisely the conversation I’ve been dreading and avoiding for two weeks. And, even though I’ve got a bold plan to find some trouble with him, I’d hoped for more time to get it straight in my head and build up the courage.

“There’s not much to talk about,” I say, clutching my chips tighter. “Something came up, and I had to go.”

“Something came up?” Linc repeats, skepticism evident in his tone. “While we were halfway through…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely between us.

“Yep. Emergency… goldfish situation.” I wince at my own absurd lie. “Very urgent. Could have been catastrophic.”

“You don’t have a goldfish.”

“I could have a goldfish.”

“Do you?”

“No,” I admit. “It was my roommate’s goldfish.”

“Lea doesn’t have a goldfish either.”

I give an exasperated sigh. “Fine, there was no goldfish emergency.”

“I figured.” Linc takes a step closer, his voice softening. “I’ve been worried that I pushed you into something you didn’t want. If I made you uncomfortable?—”

“No,” I interrupt, mortified that he’d think that he was the problem. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why did you bolt like the place was on fire?”

I stare at the sidewalk, summoning courage. He has a right to know. Plus, he looks genuinely concerned, like he’s been carrying this worry for two weeks. And from the limited engagement we’ve had so far at Pine Barrens, I know he’s a good guy who doesn’t deserve to suffer because of my bullshit.

“You really want the truth? The awkward, uncomfortable truth?”

He nods. “Only if you want to tell me.”

“I—” I swallow hard. “I’ve never done… that. Any of that.”

His brow furrows, then clears as understanding dawns. “Oh. You haven’t?—”

“Had sex? No. Not even close.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “Things were happening so fast, and when you asked to unbutton my jeans, I just… panicked.”

“Em, that’s totally OK. You should have just told me. We could have slowed down or stopped.”

“Right, because that’s precisely what a guy with your reputation wants to hear—that the girl he’s with doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“So you felt like leaving was your only option?”

“Exactly.”

Linc runs his fingers over the condensation on his Slurpee cup. “I wish you’d told me. I would have understood.”

“You say that now, but?—”

“Em, I’m not that guy. I wouldn’t have pressured you or made you feel bad about it.”

The sincerity in his voice makes something twist in my chest. We stand in silence for a moment, the only sounds coming from passing cars and the buzzing 7-Eleven sign.

In some ways, I’ve found the trouble my grandmother told me to go chasing after, in the form of spilling my deepest shame to a near stranger.

“So now you know my deep dark secret,” I finally say. “I’m near the end of freshman year and haven’t had sex. Go ahead, laugh.”

“Why would I laugh?” He looks genuinely confused. “That’s not something to laugh about.”

“Because most people our age have.”

“There’s no timeline for this stuff.” He pauses, seeming to consider something. “Can I ask why, though? Is it a religious thing, or…?”

“No, it’s… complicated.” I’m not ready to tell him about Derek and high school. “Let’s just say I’ve been waiting for the right time. And person. And situation.”

“That’s completely fair,” he says.

After a contemplative pause, Linc shifts his weight and takes another sip of his Slurpee. “Listen, about that night… I wasn’t exactly in the best headspace either.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, a little surprised, because Linc always seems like he’s happy and on top of the world.

He stares at his drink, his expression clouding. “Coach had just told me I was the new co-captain.”

“Co-captain?” I furrow my brow. “But isn’t Mike the captain?”

“Technically, now we both are. I’m supposed to be the on-ice leader, and he’s supposed to handle the off-ice leadership.” Linc laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Except he’s been so down lately he barely talks to anyone—before, during, or after games.”

We start walking, almost instinctively, toward my dorm.

The night is cold but clear, the stars visible even through the campus lights.

Linc’s breath forms small clouds in the air as he talks.

Somehow, the conversation feels more intimate than the touches we’d shared in his bedroom a few weeks back, before I’d fled.

“Coach pulled me into his office right after the game tonight,” he continues. “Basically told me to fix Mike or he’d strip him of his captain title completely.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility to put on you.”