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“I just…” I look at the ice again. “You and Mom were right about Holt. You said I should give going here a chance, and I never did. I dug my heels in about going to Boston, and it was a mistake. I’m just…worried about what other ones I’ve made.”
“Well, you weren’t going to be a gold medalist. I wouldn’t worry.”
“Dad!”
He laughs loud enough to echo off the high ceilings. “Rylan, nothing’s a mistake unless you decide it’s a mistake. I’m proud of you for deciding hockey wasn’t your path, not upset or disappointed. Just like I’m proud of you for flying across the country for college. Just like I’m proud of you for transferring.”
I nod, my throat suspiciously thick and my nose tingling from more than just the cold. “Thanks, Dad.” I glance upward at the lone banner decorating the rafters. “Are you ready for the quarterfinals?”
“I think so. Hart hasn’t wavered. Willis has been strong in net.Morgan is always reliable. And Phillips has really stepped up recently.”
I force my expression to remain impassive. I’ve heard my dad talk about his players before. But those were meaningless names.
It feels—sounds—different, now that I’ve met most of the guys he just mentioned.
Now that it matters to me if Aidan wins a championship.
I’m not just rooting for Holt to win because of my dad.
“How has tutoring him been going?” he asks.
My eyes remain on the ice. “Good,” I tell him.
“Great.” My dad sounds relieved.
I wonder what he would say—how he would sound—if I confided I’d discussed a lot more than math with Aidan.
That he’s been the highlight of transferring.
That when I’m around him I feel special andseen, in a way I’ve never experienced before.
But I’m not brave enough to say any of that out loud. I’ve never talked boys with my dad; those have always been conversations with my mom. And this isn’t a crush on a random guy in one of my classes. This is one of his players. He’s known Aidan a lot longer than I have. He cares enough about him to make the effort to keep him on the team and to ask me to tutor him. I don’t want to risk upsetting their relationship by disclosing my feelings, especially when I’m planning to do nothing about them.
“You hungry?” he asks. “Your mom started cooking before I left this morning.”
I smile. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
One last look at the ice and then I follow him back toward the lobby.
My dad drops me off at my house just before ten. I basically have to roll myself out of the car, I’m so full. I’m a decent cook, but nothing compared to my mom. She made all my favorites, and I ate way too much tonight.
“Hey!” Chloe greets me when I walk into the kitchen to store the leftovers my mom sent me home with. Her tone is as upbeat as ever, but there’s a tightness to her expression I’m confused by.
Mystery solved, when I see a guy slouched next to Dakota on the couch.
He’s fully focused on his phone, not even taking his eyes off the screen as he reaches out and grabs his can of beer to take a chug. Dakota is either unbothered by his behavior or used to it, painting her toenails purple between bites of pizza.
This must be her boyfriend, Mason, and I can see why Malia and Chloe aren’t his biggest fans.
“Hey,” I reply, focusing on Chloe as I walk over to the fridge and set the glass containers on the shelf.
“How was dinner with your parents?”
“It was good. If you’re hungry, my mom sent me home with a ton of extra food.”
“We just ate.” Chloe reaches up, storing a pot in the cabinet next to the stove. “But I’ll take you up on that tomorrow. I’m sick of cooking.”
“You’re the new Emily?”
