Page 24 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

She nods. “They make these amazing mistakes when they dance—they stumble or lose their balance, but then they just incorporate it into the next move like it was planned all along. So I started working on this piece where half the moves look like errors, but together they create something… I don’t know.

Something beautiful from imperfection, I guess.

” She shakes her head slightly. “That sounds pretentious, doesn’t it? ”

I’m struck by the affection in her voice when she talks about her students. “Not at all,” I say. “It sounds perfect.”

Our eyes lock for a moment, and the air between us feels charged. I clear my throat. “How long have you been dancing?”

The question seems to relax her. Em leans back in the seat, getting more comfortable.

“Since I was five. My mom wanted me to do ballet, but I was terrible at it—too impatient, couldn’t stand still long enough.

” She laughs. “So I tried basically every style: jazz, tap, modern, even belly dancing for a bit.”

“Belly dancing?” My mind conjures an image that makes my mouth go dry, and risks taking my mind well past the lessons I’ve planned with her.

“Not my finest moment,” Em says with a grin. “But modern dance was the only one that really stuck. It felt… free. Like I could make my own rules.”

I nod, understanding exactly what she means. “That’s how hockey feels to me sometimes. Everyone thinks it’s just brute strength, but there’s this moment when you’re on the ice and everything just… flows. You stop thinking and just move.”

“Yes! That’s it exactly.” Her enthusiasm makes her whole face light up, and I find myself wanting to know everything about her. “It’s helped me through some tough times.”

The light in her eyes dims slightly, and she turns to look out the window. My stomach sinks, sensing I’ve hit a nerve. Not sure whether it’s better to talk or stay quiet, I decide to wait, because it looks like she’s thinking. The silence stretches between us until she sighs.

“The guy I told you about from high school. Derek,” she says, her voice a whisper. “He was the mayor’s son. Popular, charming—until we were alone.”

Something cold settles in my gut. “You don’t need to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with, Em…”

“I want to,” she says, as her fingers fidget with the edge of the sweatshirt sleeve. “We dated for most of junior year, and he kept pushing me to sleep with him. I wasn’t ready, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

I watch her closely, ready to change the subject if she seems too uncomfortable, but she takes a deep breath and continues.

“It was one of those teenage things where it went from zero to complete obsession in about a month.” Her smile is sad. “We’d make out whenever we could, but when he wanted to do more—go below the belt—I’d always pull back.”

She pauses, and I give her hand a gentle squeeze, which she returns before continuing.

“I wasn’t ready, and the first few times, he seemed to understand. But the fourth time…” She swallows hard. “He pushed more, said it would bring us closer. I gave in, mostly because I didn’t want him to be mad at me.”

My stomach clenches. I’ve heard versions of this story before from female friends, and I already hate where this is going.

“It hurt,” she says quietly. “He didn’t use lube, and his finger… it hurt. When I told him, he said we just needed to keep trying.” She shakes her head. “I was torn. I liked him so much, but I wasn’t ready. I figured if he really liked me, he’d wait.”

My jaw tightens. “But he didn’t.”

“No.” Em’s voice has a flatness to it now. “He called me a frigid bitch, broke up with me, and then—because apparently that wasn’t enough—he told everyone at school that I was a slut who’d given him an STD.”

“Jesus,” I breathe. “What a fucking asshole.”

“Small community,” she says with a shrug that’s clearly meant to seem casual, but isn’t. “It got back to my parents, and when I explained what happened, they were livid—not at me, but at Derek. They went to the principal, but…”

“Let me guess,” I say, anger building in my chest. “The principal took his side.”

“He said the son of the town mayor would never act that way. So nothing happened, and I stopped caring after that. My grades tanked, I quit dance. My parents decided to send me to my cousin Louis’s private school in New York.”

I squeeze her hand again, wishing I could go back in time and knock this Derek kid’s teeth out. “So you lived with Louis?”

“Yeah, with him and his mom.” A small, genuine smile appears.

“It helped. I started to find myself again. But when it came time for college applications, I just… couldn’t.

I begged my parents to let me take a year off.

They were hesitant at first, but Louis, his mom, and my grandma made my case, and they agreed. ”

“Your gap year,” I say, putting the pieces together. “That’s when you started teaching dance?”

“Yeah. I got a job at this dance studio and another at a diner,” she shrugs. “It kept me busy while I figured things out.”

The weight of what she’s sharing with me isn’t lost. This isn’t just a story—it’s her trust. Which makes me suddenly aware of how absolutely fucking weird it is that we’re having this deeply personal conversation in a dimly lit parking lot outside a Chinese restaurant.

I’m torn between different emotions as I process Em’s story.

Rage at this Derek asshole, whose face I want to introduce to my hockey stick.

Admiration for Em. Gratitude that she trusts me enough to share this.

And a weird, fierce protectiveness that I have no right to feel for someone who isn’t actually mine.

“I don’t know what to say, Em” I admit finally, “except that I think you’re really fucking brave.”

Em’s eyebrows rise. “Brave? For freaking out and running away from you that night? Or for avoiding dating for years?”

“No,” I say. “For deciding to work through this instead of letting it define you. For asking someone you barely knew to help you.”

A slow smile spreads across her face. “I wouldn’t say I barely knew you.”

“We had one statistics class together,” I point out. “And we talked maybe, what, two times?”

“Five, and shared one email,” she corrects me, because of course she knows exactly how many encounters we’ve had. “I’ve had a good feeling about you since then. When you helped that freshman who kept getting confused about probability distributions.”

“You remember that?” I’m genuinely surprised. That was months ago, and I’d barely noticed her watching.

“You were patient,” she says simply. “And you didn’t make him feel stupid. That matters to me, both in general and in regards to our… arrangement. So, when combined with your reputation on campus, you were the obvious choice, although I’ve had to suppress certain… feelings.”

The car suddenly feels very small, very intimate.

The donut bag from the Chinese restaurant sits forgotten in my lap.

Em looks at me with those wide eyes, and I find myself leaning toward her just slightly, drawn by some invisible force.

Her lips part, and for a moment, I think I’m going to kiss her…

Boundaries be damned.

Just as I’m about to close the distance between us, a sharp chirping sound cuts through the moment. Em startles, jerking back and glancing down at her watch. She mutters something I can’t hear, then taps the screen, her forehead creasing with concern.

“Shit,” she says. “I missed a call from Louis. That’s weird—he doesn’t usually call this late unless something’s wrong.”

Just like that, the intimate bubble we’d created pops. Em pulls further back, creating space between us, and I silently curse that watch with every profanity I know.

“I should probably call him back,” she says, already fumbling for her phone. “He’s probably fine, but you know how it is with family…”

“Yeah, of course,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice. “Family first.”

Em nods, distracted, then looks back at me with a small smile. “We’re, um, still on for our lesson in a few days, right? Wednesday?”

“Definitely,” I manage to say, though my mind is still replaying how close her lips were to mine just moments ago. I clear my throat. “Same time? Seven?”

“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.

I wanted to 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 agreement suggested. 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.