Chloe is practically vibrating with excitement as we walk into the lobby of the campus rink. It smells the same as I remember—the chilled air carrying the scent of sweat and steel and buttered popcorn from the concession stand. I inhale deeply, feeling like a little kid again.
I told my roommates this morning that my dad coaches the hockey team. Chloe gave me the perfect opening at breakfast, asking if I was going to this afternoon’s game. I told her I was—to support my dad, who’s the head coach.
A revelation followed by a barrage of questions, most of which I didn’t know the answers to.
Does my dad have a favorite player? I don’t know.
Does my dad give pre-game speeches like in inspirational sports movies? I don’t know.
Does my dad think they’ll win the championship? I don’t know.
From the moment Malia parked her sedan in the crowded lot we had to circle twice to find a spot in, I realized this game will be very different from the last Holt hockey game I attended. It’s amplified by every step we take closer to the ice, the crowds of people milling about a sea of unfamiliar faces. It reminds me of last night, in some ways. Except the faces aren’t just students. There are plenty of families here as well.
Once we’re through the lobby and approaching the bleachers that surround the ice, I allow myself to look around more.
There are only a few sections of wood bench visible, most of the stands already packed with enthused spectators. We pass a few girls being herded away from the boards by a campus security guard. His kind but firm “You can’t stand here” carries over the din of excited voices echoing through the massive space.
I glance up into the rafters, decorated by a solitary, faded banner from Holt’s last championship win. I can’t read the year from this angle, but I know it’s ancient, predating my dad’s tenure by at least a decade.
By most measures, Holt is overdue for a season like this. But sports are unpredictable, unlike math.
I like searching for the right answer.
In sports, you don’t know what the outcome will be, and there’s never a “right” one.
“Are all the games like this?” I ask Chloe as we sit down, crammed between a group of guys wearing Holt Soccer sweatshirts and two girls with poster-sized signs.
“All the ones I’ve been to,” she replies, pulling her phone out and typing something. “Dakota is here. But she and Mason are sitting with his friends.”
“Bummer,” Malia says, the sarcastic tone audible over the commotion around us.
I’ve only met Dakota once, despite sharing a bathroom with her, and she seemed perfectly nice. But I’ve gotten the sense her boyfriend is not super popular with my other roommates, which Chloe confirms when she glances at me.
“Mason can be a little…unpleasant,” she tells me. “Dakota knows we’re not crazy about him. But he seems to make her happy, so…” She shrugs a shoulder. “What are you gonna do?”
I nod. If I’d had any real friends in Boston who weren’t also his, I’m sure they would have said the same thing about Walker. Hindsight makes spotting people’s shortcomings much easier.
The loudspeaker crackles to life, the announcer welcoming everyone to the game and then running through the emergency exit locations. Probably because we’re over the building’s capacity. Students have started sitting on the stairs now that the bleachers are filled, and more people are still streaming in from the lobby. To watch from where, I’m not sure.
Once the loudspeaker cuts out, pop music starts to play.
Loud cheers echo against the tall ceilings, almost drowning out the song, as blue jerseys begin to appear on the ice, circling the goal at one end.
White jerseys with stripes of green file on at the other end to a chorus of boos and jeers.
Saying Holt has the home ice advantage here seems like a massive understatement. If anyone in the stands came to cheer for today’s opponent, they’re lost in a sea of blue.
Rather than focus on any of the players warming up, my eyes seek out my dad.
He’s standing behind the bench, arms folded as he watches his guys on the ice.
He’s wearing a tie and button-down beneath his Holt Hockey jacket, and an impassive expression.
I’m not fooled by the lack of animation on his face, though. That’s just my dad—his exterior is usually gruff, measured, and calm. This is his happy place, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
I know he’s having the time of his life watching his team warm up, standing expressionless while tapping a folded sheet of paper against his arm. I’m sure he’s chewing gum too. As a kid, I used to marvel at the collection of gum wrappers in his glove compartment. It was a running joke for years, that all my dad would want as a gift was a few packs of Trident.
A slightly younger guy dressed identically to my dad sidles up beside him, saying something that has my dad nodding. I’m assuming that’s Dean Zimmerman, the assistant coach. I’ve heard my dad mention his name before but never actually met him. He only joined the team a few years ago, long after I’d stopped attending games.
One of the officials stops at the Holt bench, and my dad leans forward to talk to him.
A couple of blue jerseys skate closer to the bench to listen to the conversation. My dad says something to one of them, and he skates closer, turning so I can see the name and number on the back. Hart and 15. The team captain.
The ref skates toward the visitor’s bench next, but the two Holt players remain. My dad steps closer to the barrier between the bench and the ice, beckoning to both Hart and the other player to come closer. They form a small huddle, and I catch a glimpse of the back of the other blue jersey.
Phillips and 34.
With a start, I realize that’s Aidan talking to my dad.
I know they talk, obviously. He’s Aidan’s coach. They must exchange words.
But it’s bizarre to see it happen, to watch the stranger I met in a hot tub and my father having a conversation knowing they’ve done so dozens of times before.
I came to the game because of my dad.
But I’d be lying if I said I’m not curious to watch Aidan play.
The rest of Holt’s players are joining Aidan and Conor, clustering around the bench in a blob of blue.
My dad is talking, the entire team focused on him.
I experience a sudden rush of pride. All of these people are here to watch his players, but they’re his players. He recruited them. Trained them. Inspired them. Turned this team that no one except him cared about into an attraction that everyone in here is rooting for.
Most of the blue jerseys file off the ice, the bulky form of the goalie and five others remaining. They all face the flag, and the National Anthem starts playing.
Once the song ends, the announcer comes back on the loudspeaker. He starts by announcing Willis, the goalie. Followed by two unfamiliar names who must be the defensemen. “Robby Sampson!” receives a healthy amount of applause. “Hunter Morgan!” gets even more. And then there’s a long, deliberate pause before “And your captain and leading scorer…CONOR HART!” is announced.
The noise in the arena hits a new decibel before petering off as soon as the starting lineup for today’s opponent, Smithdale, is announced to mostly silence and a few boos.
I scan the bench until I find 34. He’s seated but leaning forward, holding his stick with both hands as he looks out at the ice.
I wonder if it bothers Aidan that his best friend bumped him to the second line. His stats aren’t Hall of Fame worthy, but they’re respectable. And he’s a senior. On another team, his name would have just been announced over the loudspeaker as part of the starters.
The official drops the puck in the very center of the largest circle, and the game begins.
I lean forward automatically, trying to gain the best view possible as I watch the puck bounce off the boards, then get picked up by a white jersey and carried toward the goal guarded by a blue jersey.
Smithdale takes its first shot and misses, thankfully.
Another drop, this one uncomfortably close to Holt’s goal. Conor wins the face-off, zipping up the ice so quickly it hardly looks like the other players are moving at all. He takes a shot on goal that the Smithdale goalie saves, and then the lines change.
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 the goal 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’t feel like 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 of the 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.
“How have you been?” she asks. “You here for your dad?”
Isla and I went to school together, starting in kindergarten. She’s the one person from our high school who chose to attend Holt.
It was common knowledge in Somerville that my dad coached Holt’s hockey team. But it’s strange to have someone know that now, without me telling them.
“Yeah,” I answer. “I’m also…I’m a student here now. I transferred.”
“Oh, wow. From Boston, right?”
“Right. Wasn’t all I was hoping it would be.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Isla says, her expression sympathetic. None of the judgment I was worried about seeing.
“Thanks. It’s been nice to be back.”
“We should get together sometime, now that you’re back in Somerville,” she suggests.
“Absolutely,” I reply. “I would love that. I was planning to reach out to you. It’s just been a crazy first week.”
“I get it. I’ll text you? Same number?”
I nod. “Same number.”
“Great.”
I introduce her to Chloe and Malia, then Isla continues back toward her seat.
“You guys went to high school together?” Chloe asks.
“And elementary school and middle school. She grew up in Somerville, just like me. And started at Holt as a freshman.”
A week ago, I would have thought Like I should have.
Today, I don’t. And it’s not because I regret transferring to Holt, because I definitely don’t. More that I’m finally accepting I can’t change the past and am trying to enjoy the present.
“She seemed nice,” Malia says.
“Yeah, she is.”
We reach the front of the line. I order a hot pretzel, and we return to our seats right as players are filing back onto the bench.
I chew on the salty, warm dough as my eyes skim over the blue jerseys.
Looking for thirty-four.
I’m irritated with myself, and also making excuses. It’s not that we hooked up; it’s that I’m tutoring him and he’s the one guy I actually know on the team. It’s not that I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time thinking about him recently; it’s that he’s been the best player on the ice this game.
Lies, but I tell myself they don’t count since they’re not spoken out loud.
Aidan’s not on the bench.
I scan it twice to confirm.
Then realize…he’s already on the ice. That his line is starting this period.
And when he scores for a third time, a few minutes later, I’m not surprised.
This time, I’m expecting it.
