My nails are biting into my palms so hard I’m worried I’ll draw blood.
Forty minutes of play, and the game is scoreless. Tied at zero.
There have been plenty of chances. Penalties. Close calls.
No goals.
I’m a ball of anxiety, my entire body vibrating despite the numbness of sitting in the same spot on hard plastic for two periods. My muscles are clenched so tightly they’re trembling.
If they lose…
Even my usually upbeat mom is stressed, picking at a stray thread on her jacket as we watch the players return to the rink for the third period. For the final period. Holt’s faces are severe and stressed as they step on the ice and skate by, heading toward their bench.
“It’s not over yet,” my mom murmurs, almost to herself.
No, it’s not over.
But it’s not looking good either, and I feel partially responsible.
I could have told Aidan to leave last night. I could have set an alarm or woken him up sooner. I could have told my dad how I felt about Aidan sooner. I could have lied to my dad in that hallway, so at least he didn’t find out I was sleeping with one of his players right before the game.
I did none of that.
And now, they might lose.
Maybe they would have lost anyway. Maybe a victory today wasn’t meant to be. The worst part of sports, in my opinion? Someone always has to lose. Someone will lose, when the twenty minutes on the clock tick down to nothing. Championship games can’t end in a tie. There has to be a winner, which means there must be a loser.
“There’s still twenty minutes,” I say. “Plenty of time.”
My mom glances at me, her expression a mixture of concern and uncertainty.
My dad told her what happened. Who was in my room last night.
My mom’s never managed to surprise my dad because they don’t keep secrets from each other. They’re honest about the hard stuff along with the easy things. I remember too much of those two hospital visits. But what stands out most vividly is how I felt safe, not just sad, watching my mom cry into my dad’s shoulder after each miscarriage. I knew that they really loved each other, that they were there for each other. It was a standard to strive for, one I feel like I’ve finally found.
I glance over, catching the crease on her forehead before she quickly smooths it out. The only thing worse than watching Holt miss opportunity after opportunity is doing so with my mom’s troubled gaze on me, worried about what I’m doing.
She hasn’t asked yet, but I know she will eventually.
Since the officials are having some discussion and the third period hasn’t started yet, I decide to get it over with.
“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 I did come 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 are two guys 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 to love Aidan, 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 charmed me, and I’m way more similar to my gruff dad than 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.
The Holt player shoots…and scores.
Another siren.
Another announcement.
This time it’s “Holt University goal scored by number fifteen, Conor Hart…”
Ten seconds.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The buzzer sounds.
I scream, hugging my mom as we both jump up and down.
Blue jerseys swarm the ice.
And Holt’s hockey team are champions.
