Page 13 of From Now On

Phillips is never one to make a subtle entrance. His shout echoes across the empty ice and cavernous ceiling. The open bleachers and (former) silence don’t bother me. This is how I prefer an ice rink, actually. The cool, still air feels hallowed, filled with the same peaceful majesty disciples experience in a church.

I glance at the giant clock located above the scoreboard. 9:09.

Phillips is rarely punctual. But it’s almost guaranteed he runs late if he’s coming from Rylan’s. Hart and I have been here for fifteen minutes, waiting for him, because Conor has the opposite problem and aims to always be early.

Holt usually melts the ice after hockey season ends. Predating Hart’s arrival on campus, that was before playoffs even started. This year, at Conor’s request, the school agreed to keep the rink frozen until mid-April. They probably would have agreed to keep this building open until graduation, if he’d asked.

Division III teams in Middle of Nowhere, Washington, don’t win national championships. Forget unlikely. Plenty of people said it was impossible. I’ll be shocked if this arena doesn’t get named after Conor whenever they get around to updating the facility. He brought a ton of positive press to a college that’d never been known for anything extraordinary. I’m praying it was enough of a splash that I’ll be able to buy a jersey with my best friend’s name on the back this fall, but there are no guarantees in professional sports. It’s not the standard nine-to-five. There are injuries and salary caps and all sorts of other factors to consider.

Conor sends the puck he was handling into the open net. It’s a beautiful shot, one I’d admire if I wasn’t accustomed to Hart shooting bullets like that regularly. “You don’t sound sorry,” he comments.

Aidan grins. “Yeah. I’m not. Seemed polite to say it, though.”

“Since when do you care about being polite?” I ask.

Phillips yanks his hand out to flip me off before adjusting his chin strap. “Good morning to you too. Sorry you two had sucky nights, but mine happened to befantastic.”

“Hart!”

We all glance toward the bench. A reflex that’s been drilled into us for the past four years. Holt’s head hockey coach, Anthony Keller, is standing with his arms crossed, a familiar, inscrutable expression stamped on his face. Coach Keller is infamous for his stoicism.

Coach’s gaze travels to me as Conor skates toward the bench. I give him a respectful nod, which he returns. Then Coach glances at Aidan. Phillips immediately straightens, the cocky smirk on his face dissipating instantly.

I skate toward the opposite end of the ice before anyone catches my grin.

Now that the season is over and I don’t have to worry about Aidan’s decisions affecting the rest of the team, I mostly just find Phillips’s mild terror around Coach amusing.

“Thanks for the moral support, man,” Aidan says sarcastically, catching up with me mid-lap.

“What?” I ask innocently.

“I’m going over there for dinner tonight.”

“Whoa. Meeting the parents. Big deal.”

“You’ve gotten more sarcastic lately, Morgan.”

“Too much time around you, I guess.”

Aidan laughs reluctantly. “I…I want her folks to like me.”

“Why wouldn’t they like—oh. I guess therewasthe wholegetting caught in their daughter’s hotel room the night before the championshipthing. And themaking out with their daughter in front of the entire teamthing.”

Phillips groans.

“Plus the four years of practices where you either showed up hungover or fucked around during?—”

“Wow, you’re crabby. How long of a dry spell has it been? One month? Two?”

My mouth stays firmly shut.

“Longerthan two?” Aidan sounds aghast.

I sigh. “It’ll go fine with Rylan’s parents, Phillips. They’ll see how much you like her. Coach cares more about how you treat his daughter than how subpar a hockey player you were.”

Aidan scoffs, then clears his throat. “Thanks, Morgan.”

That’s the thing about Phillips. Everyone on this campus knows who Aidan Phillips is. He’s the life of the party—the first to crack a joke or tap the keg. It’s not a facade.

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