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I search the new numbers on the ice until I spot 34 again. Annoyed when I realize I’m seeking him out, but curious enough I don’t look away out of sheer stubbornness. It’s not like he’ll ever know I’m staring at him.
Aidan’s circling by the spot where he’ll face off against a white jersey, bent over with his stick resting on his knees.
I frown, wondering if something is wrong.
He straightens when the official approaches, moving into a slightly crouched position opposite Smithdale’s center.
The puck drops, sticks clash, and then there’s a black blur flying across the ice.
A Holt player traps the puck on his stick and then sends it back to Aidan. His back is turned, so I can’t read the name or number on the back of his jersey.
The metallic tang of blood is how I realize I’m biting my bottom lip too hard. Just like I realize I wasn’t this invested when Conor Hart’s line was on the ice, which was the more probable scoring opportunity.
Aidan has the puck again now.
There’s a split-second where he deliberates, a Smithdale defenseman charging toward him.
He decides.
Shoots, the loud sound and flash of the siren announcing thegoal before my eyes register the spot of black landed inside the net.
The entire arena erupts, all the blue jerseys on the ice mobbing him. Chloe screams beside me, and Malia is on her feet as well.
“Holt University goal scored by number thirty-four, Aidan Phillips,” booms over the loudspeaker. “Assisted by number seventeen, Tyler Yarrow. Time of the goal, three minutes and twenty-two seconds into the first period.”
I’m probably the last person in this place to start clapping, shock slowing my reaction.
I was expecting the guy who slouched in the library chair and basically told me he failed because he didn’tfeellike taking a final exam to be the one playing today.
The game resumes at the same quick tempo, Holt now leading one to nothing.
Ten minutes later, Aidan scores again.
I’m stunned as I stare at the ice, watching his teammates congratulate him for a second time as the announcer says, “Another Holt University goal scored by number thirty-four, Aidan Phillips. Assisted by number forty-two, Ace Carter. Time of the goal, thirteen minutes and ten seconds into the first period.”
The first period ends seven minutes later, Aidan’s two goals the only ones up on the scoreboard. The arena is still buzzing from the explosive start, multiple people around us mentioning Aidan’s name.
“Snacks?” Malia suggests.
Chloe nods. “Best part of the game.”
We join the line of people slowly filtering down from the bottleneck in the stands, taking the opportunity to go to the bathroom or get food while the Zamboni is out smoothing the ice.
A couple of younger kids are being hoisted up on this side ofthe clear plastic to watch the machine work, pointing and smiling at the driver as the shavings get cleared off the surface, replaced with a gleaming sweep of water that immediately freezes. A wave of nostalgia hits, remembering doing the same thing with my own dad.
When he first got the job here, my parents just had one car. My mom would drop my dad off for games and practices, and I’d usually come with her. This old building contains a lot of memories I haven’t thought about for years.
The concession stand is a popular destination. By the time we reach it, the line ahead of us contains a couple dozen people.
“What a game!” Chloe exclaims. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement.
Malia looks just as excited, nodding in agreement as she reads over the list of offerings on the board above the cashier. All standard rink fare—popcorn, pretzels, hot chocolate, hot dogs.
“Rylan?”
I turn toward the sound of my name, recognizing Isla Yarrow immediately. “Isla! Hey!”
We exchange a quick hug.
