Page 41 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)
twenty-five
LINC
The knife makes a satisfying thunk against the cutting board as I dice an onion with practiced precision. There’s something therapeutic about cooking—the promise of satisfaction when it all comes together. Kind of like hockey. Kind of like sex.
Definitely like last night with Em.
I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face as I think about that encounter for the fiftieth time. About her. About the way she looked at me when we were in Declan’s room, her lips still swollen from my kisses, her eyes bright with something that wasn’t just desire.
“I want you.”
Those three words keep echoing in my head, but not just because of what they led to physically. It’s the weight behind them that’s got me feeling like I scored a hat trick in the biggest game of my life. She wants me, and fuck if I don’t want her just as much.
I scoop the diced onion into a bowl and move on to the bell peppers, the knife gliding through crisp flesh with minimal resistance. The recipe calls for red and yellow, but I bought green too because I like the color contrast. My dad always says presentation matters just as much as taste.
“Whoa, what’s the occasion?”
I glance up to find Mike standing in the kitchen doorway, eyebrows raised as he takes in the spread across our counter—fresh herbs, marinating chicken, a bottle of decent wine I splurged on… it’s a spread that’s far better than anything I’ve ever put on for hockey team dinners.
“Date night,” I say, feeling a weird mix of pride and self-consciousness. “Em’s coming over.”
“No shit?” Mike grins, hobbling toward the fridge. “Wow, Lincoln Garcia is finally ready to settle down…”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Maybe…”
He pulls out a Gatorade and leans against the counter, eyeing me with newfound interest. “Maine was practically doing a victory-dance.”
“I bet he was,” I laugh. “Which side of the bet were you on?”
“No comment.” He flashes a grin, another hint of the Mike of old that’s slowly creeping back in. “So you’re cooking for her?”
“It’s just chicken piccata.” I shrug, trying to downplay the effort I’ve been putting into this. “Nothing fancy.”
“Right.” Mike snorts. “Just chicken piccata with…”—he peers into my mixing bowl—“homemade pasta? Dude, you never cook like this for the team… I’m hurt.”
“The team eats like a pack of starved wolves,” I point out. “You guys wouldn’t appreciate the subtle flavor profile of lemon and capers.”
“The subtle what now?” Mike laughs. “Listen to you, like Gordon Ramsay or some shit.”
“Haven’t you got somewhere to be?” I say good-naturedly, scooping the peppers into another bowl.
“Not till later.” He takes a swig of his Gatorade, studying me over the bottle. “How you feeling about Brown?”
My knife stills for a fraction of a second before I resume chopping the vegetables. “Fine.”
“Fine?” He raises an eyebrow. “They’ve totally kicked our asses three years running.”
“And this year they won’t,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “We’ve got better depth.”
“No we don’t…” Mike laughs. “Declan left the team, and I haven’t played in an eternity…”
“Depth of soul , asshole,” I grin. “Now Em is by my side, I’m going to score a hat trick every game.”
“That’s so mushy it makes me sick,” Mike says dryly. “You been working on that line for your post-game interview?”
I laugh, but the truth is, I’ve been actively trying not to think about the Brown game. Not just because they’re stacked with talent, but because my parents are coming. And while I love them—I do, fiercely—the prospect of my mom in the stands still fills me with a strange, simmering dread.
It’s been three days since I last responded to her messages. Three days of avoiding her increasingly frequent texts about NHL scouts who might be at the game, about how Mr. Harrison from her book club has a cousin who works for the Capitals’ organization, about how proud she is of her “superstar.”
Each message adds more weight to my shoulders, another expectation I’m afraid of failing to meet. And now she’s sent twenty—twenty—photos of her book club members crowded around a laptop streaming my last game. Twenty different angles of middle-aged women in cardigans holding up homemade signs.
I don’t know whether to be touched or mortified.
“ Earth to Linc ,” Mike says, waving a hand in front of my face. “Where’d you go, man?”
I blink, suddenly aware that I’ve been staring at the same carrot for a solid minute. “Sorry, just… thinking about the game.”
“Bullshit,” Mike says, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he shifts topics slightly. “They’re coming up for it, aren’t they? Your parents?”
I nod, focusing intently on the carrot I’m julienning. “Yeah.”
“Your mom still blowing up your phone about scouts?”
Another nod.
“Jesus.” Mike’s laugh is half sympathy, half genuine amusement. “She’s really going all in on this hockey mom thing, huh?”
“She’s got a custom jersey that says ‘Linc’s Mom’ on the back,” I say, the words coming out flatter than intended. “With rhinestones.”
Mike tries to suppress his smile and fails spectacularly. “That’s…”
“Horrifying? Mortifying? A valid reason to fake my own death?”
“I was going to say ‘dedicated,’ but sure, go with mortifying.”
I run a hand through my hair. “I know I should be grateful. Some guys’ parents never even show up to a game.”
“Like mine…”
“I know, but…” I exhale slowly, choosing my words carefully, because I know Mike would kill to have his folks at a game. “It’s a lot of pressure, you know?”
The words hang. If I screw up with her watching, the disappointment will be unbearable. If I screw up with her watching, she’ll try to coach me from the stands. If I screw up with her watching, the weight of her dreams for me might finally crush the air out of my lungs.
Mike stares at me for a long moment, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head, weighing whether to offer advice or just let it go.
Finally, he settles on changing the subject, which I’m thankful for.
There’s a time and a place for this sort of chat, and I’m glad he’s realized it’s not now, before my date.
“So.” He straightens up, tossing his empty Gatorade bottle into the recycling bin. “You nervous?”
“About the game?” I frown.
“About cooking for Em.” He gestures at the spread again. “That’s a lot of effort for a girl you weren’t even dating a day ago.”
I relax slightly, grateful for the shift. “I want it to be good.”
That’s an understatement. I want it to be perfect. Not just the food—everything. The atmosphere, the conversation, the inevitable moment when we end up in my bedroom. I want to do this relationship thing right, especially with her.
“Well, I won’t cramp your style,” Mike says. “I’ll head to Maine’s tonight.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Trust me, I do.” Mike makes a face. “Thin walls, man. Thin walls.”
Heat crawls up my neck again. “That’s not, I mean, we?—”
“Save it for your diary, Casanova.” Mike holds up a hand. “Just enjoy yourself.”
The implication hangs in the air, and I can’t pretend I haven’t thought about it. About finally being with Em completely. About taking that step together, now that she’s told me she’s ready. It’s not like I haven’t had plenty of sex before, but this feels different. Important.
“Thanks,” I say finally.
“Don’t mention it.” Mike pushes off from the counter. “And Linc?”
“Yeah?”
“She’d be into you even if you ordered pizza.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts again. The first thought as I turn back to the cutting board, resuming my methodical preparation, is how nice it is to have the old Mike back. The second is that Em will be here in less than an hour.
So, for now, I push thoughts of hockey and my mother and scouts to the back of my mind. Tonight isn’t about any of that. Tonight is about Em—about us—and seeing where this thing between us might go. And, as if on cue, my phone buzzes on the counter.
It’s from Em:
On my way. Can’t wait to see what you’re cooking up… and not just dinner.
A smile tugs at my lips as I read the message. Whatever else is going on in my life, this—right here, right now—feels like a win.
The sound of three light knocks has me practically leaping for the door. I’ve been ready for the past half hour, periodically checking the time, wiping down already-clean counters, and adjusting the dimmer switch exactly seventeen times. And, most important of all, the food is ready.
And so am I.
When I swing the door open, Em stands there in a simple black dress that hugs her curves in all the right places. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and a hint of makeup accentuates her eyes. It takes me a second to remember how to form words.
“Hi,” I finally manage.
I lean forward and press a brief kiss to her lips—tentative, like we’re still figuring this out. Because we are. The party was two nights ago, and we haven’t seen each other since. We’ve texted non-stop, but this is our first official date as… whatever we are now.
“You look incredible,” I tell her.
“Thanks.” Her cheeks flush slightly. “You clean up pretty nice yourself.”
“I’m wearing a button-down and jeans,” I say. “You’re dressed for the catwalk…”
She grins. “You’ll just have to make up for it when we undress…”
I nearly choke, then take her by the hand. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” she replies, glancing around the apartment. “Smells amazing.”
I lead her through to the kitchen, where I’ve managed to set the small table. Two candles flicker in the center—I stole them from Mike’s emergency supply drawer, but Em doesn’t need to know that—and only a few other floor lamps provide dim lighting.
“Wow.” She pauses at the threshold, taking it all in… the food… the wine… the ambiance… “Consider me impressed. What are we having?”
“Chicken piccata with pasta, and” —I move to the oven, opening it dramatically— “fresh bread.”
“You made bread?” Her eyes widen. “Like, from scratch?”