Page 56 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

EM

“Come on, Linc,” I whisper, my voice lost in the roar of the Prudential Center.

The sickening crack of vulcanized rubber against composite echoes through the arena as Linc deflects the shot. The loose puck slides toward his teammate, who scoops it up in one fluid motion. A perfect pass to their center streaking down the ice, and?—

The buzzer blares as the puck hits the back of Boston’s net.

Section 104 erupts into chaos. I’m on my feet, screaming myself hoarse with the rest of our little family group. Beside me, my grandma, Penelope, and Linc’s mom, Linda, embrace—a moment that will bring these two women, who are already thick as thieves, even closer together.

“ Mon petit chou did it!” Penelope shouts, waving her sign.

The elegant French calligraphy on my grandmother’s sign stands in stark contrast to Linda’s more restrained poster—a significant evolution from the glitter bombing she subjected Linc to during his senior year, which now feels like an eternity ago rather than mere months.

“I knew he would,” Linda beams, tears streaming down her face. “Did you see that block? That’s my boy!”

George catches my eye over the celebrating women and gives me a subtle wink. Our silent communication— our family are adorable lunatics —has become a welcome bond between us, even though I’m more naturally inclined to match the high energy approach of the other two women.

The crowd starts shifting, and I slip away with a quick, “Meeting him at the tunnel.”

Lea nods, already on a phone conversation with Declan, who’s watching the game on livestream from New York, where he’s opening his first exhibit tonight.

I weave through the departing fans, ducking under elbows and sidestepping strollers with the practiced ease of someone who spent a childhood navigating dance recital crowds. The players’ tunnel is already surrounded by eager fans, but I’m excellent at making myself small yet assertive.

The team emerges from the ice to thunderous applause. My eyes scan the procession of red jerseys, searching for the one face that makes my pulse race no matter how many times I see it, even though seeing him in this particular jersey is still a relatively new phenomenon.

After his senior year, Linc was drafted #14 overall to the Devils, an omen given the number he wore at Pine Barren. We’d all travelled to his first game and, although I’d had to switch a bunch of shifts around at the diner and the dance studio to make it work, it was worth it.

And now there he is—still in full gear, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and elation. His eyes sweep across the crowd until they lock with mine. The moment of recognition sends a jolt through me, even after all these months.

His face breaks into that smile.

And, in one smooth motion, he lifts me off my feet with his right arm while removing his helmet with his left. The world spins as he twirls me in a tight circle before capturing my lips in a kiss that tastes of salt and victory and mint gum—his new pregame ritual that I still find endearing.

“You were incredible,” I tell him when we break apart, my feet still dangling above the ground. “The block in the final minute? I nearly had a heart attack.”

“Just showing off for my fan club.” His voice is hoarse from shouting on the ice, but his eyes—they hold that quiet, contented expression I’ve come to recognize as his truest happiness. It’s the face that says he’s exactly where he wants to be, with exactly who he wants to be with.

“Lincoln Garcia!” A familiar French accent cuts through our moment. “Put my granddaughter down before you drop her with your sweaty hockey arms!”

Linc laughs as he sets me gently on my feet, turning to face the incoming family tsunami. Penelope descends first, pinching his cheeks with surprising strength for someone her age.

“ Magnifique! ” she declares, switching seamlessly between languages as she always does when excited. “ Tu as joué comme un champion! ”

“Thanks, Penny,” he says, using the nickname that, it turns out, only he can get away with.

Linda pushes forward next, hugging me tightly before turning to her son. “You played great,” she whispers, voice thick with emotion.

The transformation in Linda over these past months has been remarkable. After Linc’s meltdown, they’d had a series of painful but necessary conversations. She still attends every game she can, and still cheers louder than anyone—but the pressure has evaporated, replaced by genuine pride.

George stands slightly apart, watching the scene with quiet satisfaction. He steps forward last, clapping Linc on the shoulder—a gesture that now carries months of rebuilt understanding between them, especially after he took point on reeling in Linda.

“ Solid game, son,” he says simply. The words are few but weighted with meaning.

Linc’s media liaison appears at his elbow, apologetically reminding him about post-game interviews. He’s the Devils’ new shiny toy, and the press pack want to chew on him a little. But, for just a second, he waves away the staffer before leaning in close to me.

“How long will these take?” I ask.

“Half hour, tops. Then shower and team debrief.” He kisses my temple. “Save me some of whatever your grandmother cooked?”

“There will be both Puerto Rican and French cuisine,” Penelope interjects, clearly eavesdropping. “Because compromise is the essence of family, chérie .”

“And because you and George couldn’t agree on a menu,” I add.

Penelope waves her hand dismissively. “Details.”

Linc nods toward his waiting teammates. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

As Linc disappears with his team, our group begins navigating toward the exits. Lea, finally off the phone with Declan, wraps an arm around my shoulders as we walk.

“ So ,” she says with a sly smile, “how does it feel to be dating a professional hockey player?”

“Pretty surreal,” I admit. “But how about you? How does it feel to be dating a rising art world star?”

“Pretty incredible,” Lea’s face softens with pride. “His pieces are already getting attention from some serious collectors.”

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” a familiar voice interrupts.

Mike strides toward us, his athletic gait showing no hint of his previous injury. After redshirting most of last season, he’s ready to go for his repeat senior year, looking powerful and focused. There’s a pretty brunette on his arm whom I vaguely recognize from campus.

“He played great,” Mike says, giving me and Lea a quick hug, then holds up his phone, his expression a mixture of disbelief and amusement. “Hear the news?”

“What news?” Lea asks, her protective sister instincts immediately kicking in where her brother is concerned.

“Just broke twenty minutes ago,” Mike scrolls through his phone. “Coach Barrett is out. Turns out the Athletic Director noticed he was mailing it in…”

Our group erupts in exclamations and questions. But, as they chatter, I find myself smiling at how much has changed in just one academic year.

I began my freshman year a ball of nervous and positive energy on the surface, but beneath it I was afraid to trust anyone.

Now, after meeting Lea, Linc and the rest of my friends, I’m ready for next year with more hope and confidence.

And with a hot as hell boyfriend who’s tearing up the NHL, while still making time to FaceTime me every night before bed.

“Happy?” Lea whispers, noticing my expression.

“Ridiculously,” I confirm.