Page 23 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

fourteen

LINC

I drive in 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, some one .

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 story I 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.

He hands me the donuts, then his eyes narrow as he catches me watching Em. “You know her?” he asks, suddenly suspicious.

“Yeah, I’m just—” Just what? Just creepily watching a girl dance when she thinks no one’s looking? “—just waiting for my girlfriend to finish up.”

He shrugs, and it seems I’ve passed his test. “OK, good, good. She good girl. Great tipper. Good night.”

As he shuffles back toward his restaurant, I glance toward the studio again and freeze.

Em is standing at the window, looking directly at me.

For a second, I consider starting the car and peeling out of there like I’m fleeing a crime scene.

But she waves, then holds up a finger in the universal “wait one minute” gesture.

Shit.

Busted.

Now I have to stay.

I watch as she moves around the studio with purpose, turning off lights one by one until only a small lamp remains lit in what looks like an office at the back. She grabs a duffel bag, locks the door behind her, and jogs toward my car through the chilly night air.

My pulse kicks up as she pulls open the passenger door and slides in, bringing with her the scent of vanilla and sweat that sets my mind racing.

Up close, those black leggings hug every curve, and the crop top exposes a stretch of collarbone that makes me want to press my lips against it even as she shivers slightly.

“You cold?” I ask, already reaching into the backseat where I tossed my team sweatshirt earlier.

“A little,” she admits. “Forgot how much the temperature drops in Trenton once the sun goes down.”

I pull the heavy cotton sweatshirt over the seat. “Here.”

Her eyes widen a fraction. “Oh, Linc, you don’t have to?—”

“Just take it, Em.” I hold it out. It’s a little faded, with ‘PBU HOCKEY’ emblazoned across the chest. “It’s no big deal.”

A small smile touches her lips as she takes it, her fingers brushing mine. The contact, however brief, sends a spark up my arm. She pulls it on, and it swamps her small frame, the sleeves hanging well past her hands, the hem falling to her mid-thigh. She looks impossibly small and adorable in it.

“Thanks, it’s warm,” she murmurs, her voice muffled as she adjusts the hood. “So what brings you all the way to Trenton?”

“I, uh—” The memory of Mike’s words rises again, but I push it down. “Needed to clear my head. Just drove around for a while and ended up here.”

She buckles her seatbelt—which seems oddly formal given that I haven’t even put the car in drive, but perfect given how I know her mind works—and turns to face me. Her face is flushed from dancing, a few wisps of hair escaping her bun to frame her face.

“Something’s wrong,” she says, her voice soft but matter-of-fact. “Want to talk about it?”

I’m about to brush it off with some generic response when I look at her properly. There’s no expectation in her expression, no demand, just open curiosity and something that might be concern. And suddenly, I find myself wanting to tell her everything.

But I don’t.

Because the one thing I don’t want to pollute with the rest of the shit going on in my life is… whatever this is… with Em.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I say, still watching her face. “It’s just hockey team drama.”

“Ah, so you got angry and went for a drive?” Em nods, understanding in her eyes. “When I get angry, I dance. Or stressed. Or sad. Or happy. Basically, any emotion that’s too big to contain. It’s like I have to be moving for my brain to be able to process things, you know?”

“Makes sense,” I say, watching her profile in the dim light. “I skate or run, usually, but I didn’t have time to get changed…”

“You were at home cooking, right?” she says. “You smell delicious , and, uh, I just realized how weird that sounds, but I mean it in a completely non-sexual way… although I like how you smell in that way, too… or at least I did in our first lesson, because I don’t just go around sniffing?—”

“Em.” I reach over and gently catch one of her gesturing hands. “Take a breath, OK?”

She inhales sharply, as if she’d forgotten breathing was necessary. Her hand is small in mine, delicate but strong, and it feels right. “Sorry,” she says. “I get excited about dance. And when I’m excited, I talk fast. And when I talk fast, I forget to breathe. And when I forget to breathe?—”

“Em.” This time I squeeze her hand, and she lets out a small laugh. “Breathing, remember?”

“Right. Breathing.” She demonstrates with an exaggerated inhale and exhale that makes me grin. “Better?”

“Much.” I don’t let go of her hand. “I was actually watching you dance through the window. You’re… incredible.”

Em’s cheeks flush deeper, and she looks down at her hands, now mostly hidden by the long sleeves of my sweatshirt. “Thanks. I usually practice alone. It’s easier to try new things when no one’s watching.”

“Sorry for invading your privacy, then.”

“You weren’t.” She smirks. “Well, maybe a little, but it’s fine. Better you than the high school boys who sometimes stare through the glass and make stupid faces…”

“I promise I wasn’t making stupid faces.”

“No, just staring with your mouth open.”

I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “Was I really?”

“Maybe a little.” The smile that spreads across her face is teasing, and I’m struck again by how beautiful she is—not just physically, but the way her whole face lights up when she’s amused. “But in your case, it’s OK, because it made me feel nice.”

“The routine you were doing…,” I say, genuinely curious. “There were parts that looked almost like… mistakes? But intentional ones?”

Em seems surprised by the observation, her eyes widening slightly. “You have a good eye.”

“Hockey,” I shrug. “It’s all about reading movement.”

She shifts in her seat, and I notice how she pulls at the sleeves of the sweatshirt, tugging them down over her hands—something she does when she’s nervous or unsure. “That routine is actually inspired by the kids I teach,” she explains, her voice softening.

“Yeah?”