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“I’m dating him.”
She looks at me, shock visible on her face. “You…are?”
I nod. “It’s new. And I was waiting to tell Dad until after the season had ended. I didn’t want it to affect how he treated Aidan, or anything else with the team.” I look over at her. “He’s a good guy, Mom. A great guy. We weren’t—” I blush. I haven’t talked about sex with my mom since she gave me The Talk back in middle school. “We weren’t doing anything.” If anything is defined as actual sex, which I’m definitely not going to clarify. “He came over to talk and to sleep. That was it.”
My mom studies me, then sighs. “Honey, it was still irresponsible. Whether you’re in a relationship with him or not, we trusted you. This trip was supposed to be about supporting your father, not sneaking around with a boyfriend neither of us knew you had.”
“I know. And Ididcome to support Dad, so I’m sorry what happened might have ruined today for him. Disappointing him…disappointing you, I hate it. I’ll apologize to him as soon as I can. But…there aretwoguys I love on the team. Aidan needed me last night, and I wanted to be there for him. That, I’m not going to apologize for.”
My mom nods, her expression softening as she reaches over and squeezes my knee. “Okay.”
My dad’s always been the disciplinarian parent. My mom’s a romantic.
“I’m excited to meet him, sweetie.”
“I’m excited for you to meet him too.”
She’s going toloveAidan, I’m sure. Walker was standoffish with my parents, trying to impress them by talking about the research he was doing and how much grant money he was getting. Aidan charmedme, and I’m way more similar to my gruff dadthan my easygoing mom. My mom will probably be planning our wedding after their first conversation.
The third period begins.
The whole game has been physical. Desperate, both teams fighting for puck possession. This is another level. Every few seconds, it seems, there’s a loud bang as bodies collide with boards.
I’m tenser than a statue, as time ticks down to ten minutes remaining. If this game goes into overtime I might need to do a shot or something. The arena is huge and packed. And I’ve seen other people walking around with cups of beer, just like at professional games. There’s got to be a bar in here somewhere.
Aidan’s line is out on the ice. I watch as he says something to one of his wingers, who shakes his head, and then skates into position for the face-off.
Aidan wins it, passing to the player he was just talking to. They hustle up the ice, the other guy entering the zone with the puck first.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I chant.
Ambient noise swallows it up. The chatter of the crowd, the scrape of blades against ice, the sharp tweet of a whistle.
One winger passes to the other winger, who passes it back. Then Aidan has the puck again.
He shoots…and the siren screams for the first time all game.
I sit, stunned, for a second. After waiting most of the game for a goal, it’s a shock to finally see one. But the scoreboard changes and the loudspeaker crackles to life and it registers.
“Holt University goal scored by number thirty-four, Aidan Phillips…”
I leap to my feet, hugging my mom.
Aidan’s at the bench now, talking with a few teammates.
Their huddle breaks, and then play resumes.
Fabor is desperate now, as minutes continue to tick down. They barrage Holt’s goalie, Willis, with shot after shot, but he blocks them all. And Holt is reenergized by their lead, keeping up with every play Fabor throws at them.
Two minutes are left on the clock, and Aidan’s goal is the only one on the scoreboard.
Fabor pulls their goalie, gaining a man advantage.
One minute left.
Thirty seconds.
Willis deflects another shot, and a blue jersey picks up the puck. Then zooms toward the opposite end of the rink, Fabor’s red jerseys fighting and failing to keep up.
