Page 1 of Goalie Lessons

Prologue - Astrid

“Holyshit!Thisisjust likeBridgerton!”

The bridesmaid to my left sprints into the decorated courtyard, her heels clacking loudly as she runs, holding up the train of her dress with one hand, her drink in the other.

Of course it’s Katie, Sloane’s cousin. She’s the loudest at any party, her blonde hair curled loosely down her back, her makeup exaggerated. If she wasn’t a bridesmaid, she’d be in a dress a lot more risqué than the simple, blush-colored gown that drapes her body.

The spaceisbeautiful—the small, cobblestoned space behind the massive Irish countryside house, surrounded by hedges and tall, flowering vines.

“Fucking dreamy!” Katie adds, twirling to face the other members of the bridal party, a hilarious contrast to the soft, gentle music and breeze floating through the canopy of flowers above. She fakes like she’s dancing with someone, and I see the comparison, especially with the soft, classical rendition of Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter coming from the string quartet.

It’s my best friend’s wedding—I should be more excited. I definitely shouldn’t be exhausted already, wanting to go back to my guest room and crash for the night. The ceremony is over, the real party just starting, and as maid of honor, I’m partially responsible for making sure everything goes perfectly.

Leave it to Sloane McKenzie, my former college roommate and current best friend, to pick the most romantic place on Earth for her wedding.

I was there the day that Callum and Sloane aggressively proposed to each other at the same time. I’d figured, between both of their busy schedules and mine, I’d be lucky to even attend, let alone earn the spot of maid of honor.

Of course, I was very wrong.

Hordes of guests are still filing from the chapel and down the slope. Golden light spills out and washes over the rolling hills. I run a hand down my dress and stop at the bar to get a drink from the menu of personalized cocktails. TheSloane Ranger, named after one of Callum’s nicknames for her, stands out, and I order it on a whim.

Also, leave it to Sloane to somehow bag a rich, famous athlete with a secret Irish family and a whole fucking estate in the Irish countryside. And to have the most lavish, enviable wedding of any of our college friends. The ceremony was moving enough that evenIalmost shed a tear. Her dad cried the entire time. Sloane was glowing, effervescent in her ball-gown-style dress, her golden hair falling in soft curls down her back. Her eyes were locked on Callum, who looked at any moment like he might pass out from sheer joy.

As maid of honor, I’ve been intimately involved in this wedding. Consulting on the seating chart, providing my input on whether or not they should do a private photo shoot (of course), and planning her bachelorette party.

Today, I’ve had my own series of tasks to focus on, and I’ve clung to them. It’s a lot easier than getting swept away by the grandeur, letting myself float on the current of love like a cartoon character, nose-deep in a pie’s steam.

I can see it in a lot of the other women here, the star-eyes, the belief that this kind of wedding—and groom—is coming to them, too.

Pushing those thoughts away, I run through the detailed list in my head. During the ceremony, it was my job to fluff Sloane’s dress, make sure her veil was sitting right for the pictures, remind the officiant to step out so his face wouldn’t be hovering behind theirs in the memories of the day.

Like with everything, I’ve done an endless amount of research to prepare. And I intend to busy myself with being there for Sloane, so I can ignore the consistent, clanging twinges of self-consciousness in my chest.

The string quartet sits in the corner, playing pop songs softly as we enter the courtyard. Callum and Sloane left after the ceremony for their private session, but it’s just as likely that they’ve stolen into a closet or something to start their wedding night early.

The caterers are already set up, and the food smells amazing—lemon and honey glazed salmon, roasted parsnips and broccoli, creamy risotto. There’s some sort of beef dish, and ratatouille for vegetarians. If Sloane hadn’t been strict on the no phones policy, people would be going hungry to snap pictures of the gorgeous dishes.

“Hey, Astrid.”

I turn to see one of Callum’s groomsmen, a Frost teammate, peering down at me. I know who he is instantly.

Grayson O’Connor.

He’s ridiculously tall—or, perhaps, just average height for a hockey player. For some reason, my heart does something weird now that I’m in his presence. He’s the kind of guy that emanates a controlled kind of scruffiness. Something about him reminds me of a calico cat, the way his curls are lighter at the top of his head, fading into a darker brown over his ears and at his nape. His facial hair is more intentional than a shadow, less intense than a beard. For some stupid reason, my hand twitches, wants me to reach up and run the pad of my thumb over it, just to ascertain the texture.

My mind flashes back to the first Frost game I attended with Sloane, the way she’d shoveled popcorn into her mouth, asking me to turn around so she could get a look at the jersey I was wearing.

Staring at Grayson now, it takes me right back to that moment in the Frost arena, the smell of popcorn and nacho cheese, that weighty material of the jersey on my shoulders.

“You picked the back-up goalie. The nervous one.” Sloane looked me up and down in the jersey.

“Grayson O'Connor,” her mom had added, eyes lighting up. “Luca snatched him up because the kid has these insane shut down moments.”

Sloane said, “We’ll have to see if he’s able to overcome his problem.”

“Problem?” I’d asked, something inside me sparking with interest.

“I’m calling it the pre-yips,” Sloane said, simply, shoveling popcorn in her mouth and pointing down at the ice. My eyes snagged on him in front of the goal. Together, the three of us were looking at him down on the ice, warming up. “Certain nights he’s on, certain nights he’s off. It’s completely random. When he’s on, he has the potential to be the best goalie like ever, but those bad days really bring his averages down.”

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