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“That whistle looks good on you, Phillips.”
I glance over one shoulder, shocked to see Rylan standing a few feet away. She’s wearing her pom-pom hat, hands shoved deep into her pockets.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
I wanna step off the ice and kiss her, but I’m guessing that’ll set off a chorus of “Ews” from the peanut gallery, and I have no idea where her dad is.
Rylan’s eyes are bright and sparkling as she glances at the ice. Takes in the scene. “You’re coaching?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Hart helps out with the team but had a conflict this week. Asked me to step in. The usual coach got sick, so…yeah. Going terribly so far.”
I glance at the net. Empty still, a quarter of the way down the line.
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” she tells me. “They look like they’re having fun.”
I’m used to hearing the opposite. That I’m too easy on myself, that I don’t care about anything important. I thought Rylan believed the same thing. That I’m thecampus playboyin her eyes, same as everyone else’s. I don’t know when that changed. I didn’t know thathadchanged.
Impulsively, I say, “I missed you.”
I haven’t seen her since I went over to her house on Wednesday.
Before Rylan can reply, I hear a familiar voice.
“Hey, honey.”
Immediately, I stiffen. I should have guessed she was here because of her dad, but it didn’t occur to me. I have a tendency to focus on nothing except her, whenever she’s near. I was just happy to see her, not wondering why she was here.
“Hey, Dad.”
I swallow, turning to watch Coach approach the bench. His Holt Hockey cap is pulled low, shading his eyes and making it harder to read his reaction to finding me talking to his daughter.
“Phillips.”
“Coach.” I’m tenser than a wood board, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
“You’re running the PeeWee practice?” He sounds surprised, understandably.
“Hart recruited me. And the normal coach is sick.”
“How’s it going?” He looks out at the ice.
I wince, certain he’s looking at a lot of misses. “Not great.”
“Try two lines. Zig zag passes. Or have them race from one end. Goal line, blue line. Goal line, center line. Goal line, blue line. Goal line, goal line. That’ll wear them out fast.”
“I will, Coach. Thanks.”
He nods, then glances at Rylan. “You ready to go?”
“Yep.” She glances at me. “Good luck. I’ll, uh, see you on Tuesday.”
“For tutoring,” I clarify. Unnecessarily.
Because I’m hoping I’ll see her sooner, and that no math will be involved. And since we’re nowhere I can actually say that, I’m overcompensating.
“Right. For tutoring.” Rylan gives me a weird look, then follows her dad toward the lobby. I watch her until she’s out of sight, wishing she would turn around the whole time. I want her to stay. To pull her around the ice with me after this practice ends, same as I watched Hart do with Harlow.
I push away from the boards.
