I tighten the scarf around my neck, my watering eyes focused on the stone pavers of the path as I walk across them as quickly as my leather riding boots will allow.
I’m headed in the direction of the sports complex, which happens to be the same way the wind is blowing from. It feels like walking toward a fan blowing frigid air. Icy blasts comb through my hair and burn my cheeks.
All of the athletic buildings are located on the far edge of campus.
A long walk in nice weather. A miserable one during the cold snap Somerville is currently experiencing.
The usual dampness in the air has been replaced by a bitter bite. And since I looked awful the last time he saw me, I’ve dressed up extra this week on the off chance I run into Aidan. I haven’t, which I thought would be a relief. Instead, I’m scanning the rink’s parking lot for his truck, disappointed when I don’t spot the distinctive bright shade.
I should have worn sweatpants instead of this cute, impractical skirt.
My dad’s old SUV is one of the only vehicles in the lot. I’m having dinner at my parents’ tonight, and my dad is giving me a ride from the rink.
There’s no sign of my dad, just his car, so I keep walking toward the main entrance.
The double doors open right before I reach them, and Conor Hart walks out. His dark hair is damp, and he has a hockey bag slung over one shoulder.
The first thing I do is glance behind him to see if anyone else is coming out. He’s alone, and I quickly snuff out the disappointment that appears again.
Conor smiles. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I echo.
Both of us pause, neither saying anything.
“I’m Rylan,” I remind him.
“Right. I remember. Aidan’s tutor.”
Better than being called the coach’s daughter, I guess.
But I don’t like being referred to as Aidan’s anything. Or rather, I like it too much. It’s the possessive way he pulled my hips down onto his mouth in verbal form.
“I usually just go by Rylan,” I say. “Team captain.”
Conor smirks. “Touché. You here to see your dad?”
I nod. “You here for extra practice?”
The team’s practice ended a couple of hours ago. I know the hockey team’s entire schedule now, thanks to Aidan. He sent me his so we could reschedule the study sessions we’ve missed lately. Sent me his entire schedule. Classes, practices, games. Basically a map of his whereabouts, but I haven’t orchestrated bumping into him.
“Yeah,” Conor replies, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “Can’t prepare too much before the next round. Or if you can, I am.”
I smile. “Well…good luck.” I’m nervous around Conor, and it’s not the awkwardness of him being one of my dad’s players or a really hot guy. He’s Aidan’s best friend.
“Thanks,” he says.
I smile again before continuing toward the doors.
“Rylan.”
I still with surprise, then turn back around.
“I just wanted to say thanks.”
My forehead wrinkles. “For what?”
“For tutoring Phillips. Knowing him, it probably hasn’t been the easiest job in the world. He loves to fuck around and to stir shit up, but he’s one of the best guys I’ve ever met. I don’t want to win a championship without him, and you’re why he’s still on the team. So, thanks. I’ve walked in on Aidan actually studying at least a dozen times this week.”
“That’s all him,” I say, almost defensively.
It’s nice of Conor to credit me, but I’m a terrible tutor. I haven’t responded to Aidan’s email with his schedule because I know the conviction about staying away from him will disappear as soon as we meet. When I woke up on Wednesday morning, well-rested and clear-headed, all the uncertainty his presence chased away reappeared.
I couldn’t think past pleasure when he was in my bed. When he was touching me.
But since then, all I’ve done is second-guess what happened. And it’s not just the complications that Aidan is on the hockey team or the guy that I’m tutoring. Hooking up with Aidan didn’t just happen because I’m insanely attracted to him.
I like him.
He’s not just the confident, gorgeous guy I encountered in the woods. Or just the carefree, popular player who sauntered into the library for our first tutoring session.
He’s considerate and funny and intriguing.
All good things.
Too good.
I’m not concerned about his connection to my dad or the dubious ethics of hooking up with my tutee, even if Conor’s praise makes me feel way worse about how I’ve handled that.
I’m worried Aidan is going to break my heart. I’ve spent way too long staring at his They’re not you text, and those are just words on a screen.
“If you say so,” Conor says. “See ya ’round, Rylan.”
“Bye, Conor,” I reply, watching him head toward the lot.
He’s wearing the same Holt Hockey jacket Aidan often wears. Aidan’s hair is a lighter shade of brown, but he and Conor are about the same build.
It’s easy to imagine that’s Aidan walking away from me.
Which is exactly what he will do, at some point. Either because I give in and he gets bored or because I don’t give in and he gets bored.
I need to be prepared for that outcome either way.
Aidan’s not a relationship guy.
Walker seemed like one. We started out as friends. Got drinks, then drinks turned into dinner. We were officially dating for a month before we had sex for the first time.
In some ways, Aidan Phillips is an ideal candidate for a fling. The perfect way to regain my confidence and to try new things. To just have fun.
Him playing hockey and failing Stats complicated it.
But he had to ruin it by walking me home. Paying for my drink. Bringing me dinner.
You’re not supposed to have feelings for a fling.
And I have feelings for Aidan.
Another cold gust of wind convinces me to head inside rather than continue standing here.
Stepping in through the double doors is a relief. It’s not warm inside the building, but it’s warmer.
I walk through the lobby and toward the ice, gazing around in awe. It’s bigger than I remember, maybe because it’s the first time in years I’ve seen the rink when it’s completely empty.
The ice is flawless, gleaming beneath the bright lights. And it’s church silent, so quiet I can hear my footsteps as the bottoms of my boots hit the rubber mats.
It’s very different staring out at the rink when there’s no one on it. It’s just an endless expanse of white. Smooth and pristine, such a sharp contrast to the clashes that were taking place on its surface the last time I was looking at it.
I haven’t skated in years.
And I miss it, I realize suddenly. It’s one of those things I worked to outgrow simply because that seemed like what growing up was at the time.
The weightless glide. The proud way my dad would watch me. The constant fear of falling.
“Hey, honey.”
I turn. My dad is walking this way with a couple of binders tucked under one arm.
“Hey, Dad.”
He reaches me, squeezing me against his side the same way he did when I was little. “You’re feeling better? Your mom said you came down with a cold.”
“Yeah, I’m much better. Just needed a few good nights’ sleep.”
“Good. Have you been waiting long? You should have come back to my office.”
“I just got here,” I assure him. “I haven’t been waiting at all.”
“Oh, all right. Are you ready to go?”
I nod, then blurt, “Were you upset when I stopped playing hockey?”
Wondering that has stuck with me, ever since Aidan brought it up. I thought not choosing Holt was the first time I let down my dad, but maybe that happened a lot earlier. He just nodded when I told him I wanted to do gymnastics with my friends instead, and that was that.
Both of his eyebrows rise. “Upset? No.”
“Disappointed, then?”
“Of course not. I only wanted you to play if you loved it, Rylan.”
“I mean, I liked it.”
He chuckles. “Where is this coming from? You haven’t talked about hockey in years. You playing hockey, in a decade.”
“I just…” I look at the ice again. “You and Mom were right about Holt. You said I should give going here a chance, and I never did. I dug my heels in about going to Boston, and it was a mistake. I’m just…worried about what other ones I’ve made.”
“Well, you weren’t going to be a gold medalist. I wouldn’t worry.”
“Dad!”
He laughs loud enough to echo off the high ceilings. “Rylan, nothing’s a mistake unless you decide it’s a mistake. I’m proud of you for deciding hockey wasn’t your path, not upset or disappointed. Just like I’m proud of you for flying across the country for college. Just like I’m proud of you for transferring.”
I nod, my throat suspiciously thick and my nose tingling from more than just the cold. “Thanks, Dad.” I glance upward at the lone banner decorating the rafters. “Are you ready for the quarterfinals?”
“I think so. Hart hasn’t wavered. Willis has been strong in net. Morgan is always reliable. And Phillips has really stepped up recently.”
I force my expression to remain impassive. I’ve heard my dad talk about his players before. But those were meaningless names.
It feels—sounds—different, now that I’ve met most of the guys he just mentioned.
Now that it matters to me if Aidan wins a championship.
I’m not just rooting for Holt to win because of my dad.
“How has tutoring him been going?” he asks.
My eyes remain on the ice. “Good,” I tell him.
“Great.” My dad sounds relieved.
I wonder what he would say—how he would sound—if I confided I’d discussed a lot more than math with Aidan.
That he’s been the highlight of transferring.
That when I’m around him I feel special and seen, in a way I’ve never experienced before.
But I’m not brave enough to say any of that out loud. I’ve never talked boys with my dad; those have always been conversations with my mom. And this isn’t a crush on a random guy in one of my classes. This is one of his players. He’s known Aidan a lot longer than I have. He cares enough about him to make the effort to keep him on the team and to ask me to tutor him. I don’t want to risk upsetting their relationship by disclosing my feelings, especially when I’m planning to do nothing about them.
“You hungry?” he asks. “Your mom started cooking before I left this morning.”
I smile. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
One last look at the ice and then I follow him back toward the lobby.
My dad drops me off at my house just before ten. I basically have to roll myself out of the car, I’m so full. I’m a decent cook, but nothing compared to my mom. She made all my favorites, and I ate way too much tonight.
“Hey!” Chloe greets me when I walk into the kitchen to store the leftovers my mom sent me home with. Her tone is as upbeat as ever, but there’s a tightness to her expression I’m confused by.
Mystery solved, when I see a guy slouched next to Dakota on the couch.
He’s fully focused on his phone, not even taking his eyes off the screen as he reaches out and grabs his can of beer to take a chug. Dakota is either unbothered by his behavior or used to it, painting her toenails purple between bites of pizza.
This must be her boyfriend, Mason, and I can see why Malia and Chloe aren’t his biggest fans.
“Hey,” I reply, focusing on Chloe as I walk over to the fridge and set the glass containers on the shelf.
“How was dinner with your parents?”
“It was good. If you’re hungry, my mom sent me home with a ton of extra food.”
“We just ate.” Chloe reaches up, storing a pot in the cabinet next to the stove. “But I’ll take you up on that tomorrow. I’m sick of cooking.”
“You’re the new Emily?”
I glance toward the couch, where Mason has finally looked up from his phone.
“Uh, I guess so. I’m Rylan. Nice to meet you.”
Rather than respond, he stands and walks this way. His eyes are focused on my legs, which makes me glad I still have my winter coat on. “I’m Mason.”
“Nice to meet you, Mason.”
He walks over to the fridge and pulls another can of beer out. “How ya liking Holt?”
“Good, thanks.”
“Heard your dad coaches the hockey team.”
Only a matter of time, I guess, until that became common knowledge.
I nod. “Yeah, he does.”
“Does that mean you have a thing for hockey guys, like the rest of the girls at this school?”
My stomach roils unpleasantly when he winks.
Chloe makes a face, possibly taking the question as a personal insult. Dakota snorts, still focused on her nails.
“It means my dad coaches the hockey team,” I say cooly.
I’m liking Mason less by the second. At least he takes the hint and heads back to the couch with his fresh beer.
“Gonna go study,” I tell Chloe.
She nods, then tilts her head toward the couch and mouths Ignore him.
I nod back, then head down the hallway to my bedroom. Change into comfier, warmer clothes before settling at my desk to get some work done.
Instead of starting on any of my assignments, I unlock my phone.
Stare at Aidan’s latest message, in what’s become a familiar routine.
He hasn’t texted since, and I don’t know what that means. Has he already lost interest? Is he annoyed at me for not replying? Is this a game to him?
I shut my phone off and open a textbook, focusing on this week’s problem set. Abstract Algebra seems less complicated than thinking about Aidan Phillips.
