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They’re halfway down the line now. By the time the last kid shoots, only two pucks have gone in.
I pick one up on my stick and skate back toward the center line. Skid to a dramatic stop, spraying a bunch of shavings toward the opposite end.
Then shoot.
The netting bulges from the impact.
“Two lines!” I bark.
They all scramble to listen.
And I skate after them, filled with fresh determination.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
RYLAN
“Hey, Rylan.”
I turn to see a guy I’ve never seen before standing with two other guys, one of whom looks vaguely familiar.
I got here ten minutes ago and have spent all of that time unsuccessfully looking for Aidan. So far, he’s nowhere to be found.
“Hey…” I have no clue who he is or why he’s talking to me. How he even knows my name.
Guess that comes through clearly in my voice, because there’s a spasm of annoyance in his expression.
“Jake Brennan, remember? We have Intro to Philosophy together. I sit two rows behind you.”
“Right,” I say, although I still have no recollection of ever meeting Jake before.
Intro to Philosophy is my least favorite class this semester, one I’m only taking because it fulfills one of the Holt requirements I need to graduate. Maybe that’s why I blocked Jake out.
That, or I can’t seem to focus on any guy who isn’t Aidan Phillips.
“Can I get you a drink?” Jake offers.
One of his buddies doesn’t manage to fully hide his smirk behind his plastic cup.
“I’m good, thanks.” I go to shove my hands into my pockets, then remember I’m wearing a skirt and can’t. So I end up just rubbing my palms against the maroon-colored fake leather.
Finally, I place why the smirking buddy looks familiar. “You’re on the hockey team,” I say. He’s the guy in the background of the photo Aidan sent me.
He nods, his grin widening. “Cole Smith. Nice to officially meet you.”
“Officially?”
“Yeah, Brennan said your dad is Coach K, right?”
“Right,” I say, a little annoyed that’s my introduction.
I’m proud of my dad and his accomplishments. Doesn’t mean I want to be reminded of them at a party. Be reduced to that association.
“Yeah, well, any friend of the guy taking us to a national championship is a friend of ours, or however that saying goes.”
“She’s his daughter, dickhead,” the third guy chimes in with. “That’s not the saying—at all.”
“Ignore them,” Jake says, stepping forward. “Sure you don’t want that drink? Kitchen is right this way.”
