Page 50 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

thirty

EM

I practically run into the wall of muscle that is Lincoln Garcia.

One minute I’m walking back from the bathroom, still annoyed at myself for missing what was apparently a fantastic save by Rook—as everyone in the ladies’ room kept exclaiming—and the next, I’m face-to-face with my boyfriend, who looks like he might spontaneously combust.

“Linc!” My face automatically breaks into a smile. “I?—”

The words die in my throat as I register his expression. His jaw is clenched so tight I swear I can hear his teeth grinding. Eyes blazing, shoulders rigid—I’ve never seen him look this way. If anger were visible, the air around him would be crackling with red lightning.

“What’s wrong, Linc?” My smile evaporates faster than spilled vodka at a frat party. “Talk to me…”

“Coach,” he mutters, gaze fixed somewhere beyond my left shoulder. “Just had a talk with Coach Barrett.”

I wait for him to continue, but nothing follows. Just that muscle in his jaw jumping like it’s trying to escape his face. And, as I watch him fight a battle in his own head every bit as fierce as the one on the ice, a war breaks out in my own mind about how to handle it.

Say something. Anything. He always knows what to say when you’re upset.

“Bad talk?” I venture, which—way to state the obvious, Em.

Linc makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so hollow. “Yeah…”

This is weird. I’ve already figured out that when Linc is upset, he talks. He processes out loud, paces, gestures with those expressive hands. Even the night he came to my dorm unannounced… he’d been upset, but open. But this silent, statue-like version of him is completely foreign to me.

My thoughts spin like a hamster wheel at triple speed. I need to fix this, but I don’t know what “ this ” is.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I try.

When he shakes his head once, sharp and definitive, I shift my weight, hyper-aware of the muffled roar of the crowd a few hallways away. The second period must have started without him. That can’t be good, given he’s the co-captain and this is a game against a rival team.

“Linc, is this about the scouts?”

“Don’t,” he cuts me off, the single word slicing through the air between us.

Well, shit. I’ve apparently hit the exact wrong nerve.

The silence stretches between us, thin and brittle as ice in spring.

And suddenly, my mind is screaming at me to do something, do anything, and do it fast —because part of being a good girlfriend is being there when the stakes are high and the chips are down.

And I very badly want to be Lincoln Garcia’s girlfriend.

“I was talking to my grandmother last night,” I blurt out, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. My brain has officially switched to panic mode, which for me means verbal diarrhea. “About you meeting my family… and she’s invited us over for dinner next week.”

Linc blinks, finally looking directly at me with an expression of bewilderment. Like I’ve suddenly started speaking Klingon. But I can’t stop. It’s like my mouth has decided this is the perfect moment to discuss next weekend’s plans—when, in fact, it’s probably the worst possible time.

I plow ahead. “She’s so excited. Like, ridiculous levels of excited. She’s already planning this whole French feast with all these dishes she thinks you’ll like based on things I’ve mentioned, which is sweet but also slightly terrifying because my grandmother can be a bit… much.”

Stop talking. For the love of god, stop talking.

“And I told her not to go overboard but that’s like telling a fish not to swim, you know?

But I promise it won’t be overwhelming. Louis will be there too, just like we discussed, and he’s great at diffusing tension.

Not that there will be tension! My family will love you.

I mean, how could they not? You’re great and?—”

“Em.” Linc’s voice is quiet but firm, bringing my runaway train of words to a screeching halt.

Great job. You’ve made this about you somehow. Stellar girlfriend behavior.

I take a breath, forcing myself to slow down. “Sorry. I’m nervous. You’re upset. And I don’t know how to help and I’m making it worse.”

He runs a hand over his face, and for a moment he looks so tired I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him to forget the stupid game, and offer to do whatever it takes to make him feel better. But something in his posture warns me not to touch him.

Linc is staring at the floor now, and I can’t tell if he’s even listening. His face has gone completely blank—a mask that reveals nothing. I keep my mouth shut until he finally looks up, meeting my eyes. The anger I saw earlier has drained away, leaving something worse in its place.

A distant, hollow look that makes my stomach drop.

“Em.” His voice is so quiet I have to lean in to hear him.

“Yes?”

“I’m not sure I can do this.”

The words don’t compute at first, like they’re in a foreign language my brain can’t translate. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to break free from my ribcage.

Say something. Ask for clarification. Don’t just stand here like an idiot.

“I haven’t even told you when the dinner is,” I reply, relief washing over me. “But it’s flexible! We can schedule it on a non-game day. Grandma’s retired, so?—”

Linc lifts his gaze to mine again, and the look in his eyes stops me mid-sentence. His lips press into a thin line, and I can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.

“No, Em. That’s not what I meant.” He gestures vaguely with one hand between us. “I can’t do this . Us.”

The words land like a physical blow. My stomach drops so suddenly that I feel momentarily dizzy, like I’ve missed a step at the top of a staircase and my body is already bracing for the fall.

“ What? ” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s too high, too thin. “What do you mean, Linc?”

He shifts his weight, looking everywhere but at me. “It’s too much pressure. I can’t handle it.”

“Too much pressure?” I repeat stupidly, the words not quite computing. “What do you mean? What pressure?”

Somewhere in the distance, the crowd roars—a sound that now feels like it’s coming from another dimension. A dimension where thirty seconds ago I was still happy, planning a future that’s evaporating in front of me.

“I need some time.” His voice is flatter than I’ve ever heard it. “To figure some stuff out.”

My brain scrambles to make sense of what’s happening. Yesterday morning we woke up in each other’s arms. Yesterday morning he told me he loved me. This morning we texted about what movie to watch later. And now… this?

“What stuff?” My voice trembles on the question. “Why can’t you figure it out with me?”

He shakes his head, and something in his expression hardens. “I just can’t, okay? This isn’t… I’m not… I need space.”

Each disjointed phrase is a nail in the coffin of whatever we were building together, a field of flowers and a sky of sunshine reduced to ash and darkness. My chest tightens painfully.

“Space.” I echo the word back to him. “But last night you said?—”

“I know what I said,” he cuts me off, crossing his arms. “Things change.”

“In twenty-four hours?” Heat floods my face—anger and humiliation mixing into a toxic blend. “Things don’t change that fast. People don’t change that fast.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Well, I did.”

I stare at him, searching for a sign that this is temporary—a bad mood, a momentary freak-out about meeting my family, a case of gameday jitters gone bad. But all I see is ice in the eyes that were warm on mine just yesterday.

“Is it something I did?” My voice cracks on the question, betraying the desperation I’m trying to hide. “Because if I?—”

“It’s not you,” he says, in the most stereotypical breakup line of all time. “I just… I need to focus on hockey right now. And school. And sorting out my shit.”

“That’s bullshit.” The words escape before I can stop them. “You can focus on school or hockey and still have a girlfriend. Declan and Lea make it work.”

His face hardens. “I’m not Declan.”

“No shit,” I snap, hurt making me reckless. “He wouldn’t dump his girlfriend in the middle of a hockey game with no warning.”

Linc flinches, and for a second I think maybe I’ve gotten through to him. Maybe this is just a momentary lapse in sanity that we’ll laugh about later. In that case, it will still hurt, but we can move on.

“I need to get back,” he says instead, nodding toward the rink.

“So that’s it?” My voice rises. “You just drop this bomb and walk away?”

He takes a step backward. “I guess so. Sorry.”

And then, before I can say another word, he turns and walks away, his broad shoulders set in a rigid line that says don’t follow me more clearly than words ever could.

I stand frozen in the hallway, my chest constricting so tightly I can barely breathe. The sounds of the game continue in the distance—whistles, cheers, the dull thud of bodies checking against the boards.

Life going on as normal while mine implodes.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

But it is. The empty hallway and the cold knot in my stomach are proof enough of that. Just minutes ago I was excited to watch him for the rest of the game and then hang with him after.

I was texting Louis about what dessert to make for our family dinner next weekend. I was picturing Linc laughing with my grandmother and fitting seamlessly. I was thinking about a future together.

And now…

A hot tear slides down my cheek. I swipe it away furiously, refusing to break down in a public hallway where anyone could walk by. My legs feel like they might give out, so I lean against the wall, trying to make sense of it.

But there is no sense to be made. One minute I had a boyfriend who loved me, and the next I had… nothing.

The cruelest part is that I felt proud of myself—proud that I’d finally been brave enough to open up, to trust someone. I’d overcome my fear, my self-doubt, my certainty that I wasn’t worth loving.

I’d given Linc everything I had.

And he’d handed it all back without even looking me in the eye.