Page 13 of Goalie Lessons

What if they get hurt? What if I had no idea how to help them? What if one of their allergies isn’t listed in the documents? What if they both hate me? What if they set the house on fire and I can’t get them out in time?

“Grayson?”

I blink, realizing I must have sat down at some point, because I’m against the wall, still in my goalie gear, breathing hard, helmet discarded next to me. Three faces peer down at me—Callum, Sloane, and—

“Astrid?” I answer, mouth feeling gummy.

Surely, I’m imagining her right now. She kneels down, brows furrowing as she looks at me, her hands finding mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Everything okay, Grayson?” she asks.

“I’ll call the trainer,” Sloane says, breathless and panicked, but Astrid holds her hand up, shaking her head.

“No, that’s—are you hurt, Grayson?”

I shake my head, still breathing hard. I once again bring my hand up to rub at my chest, but I hit the hard material of my gear before I touch skin. My other hand stays locked in hers. I think of Mrs. Welch, of the way her hands felt in that office. Astrid’s are nothing like that—small, yes, but strong. Capable. Her skin is soft and tanned.

It comes to me that she’s living in California. That’s where she flew back to after the wedding. So, what is she doing here now? How long has she been in Milwaukee?

“You know any breathing exercises?” Astrid asks, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something warm and earthy, a little sweet. Her voice is soft, so quiet I know I’m the only one who can hear her. Sloane and Callum stand a ways off, glancing over at me nervously.

Astrid squeezes my hand, re-directing my attention to her.

The rush of the wedding washes through my head—her, so beautiful in her rose blush gown, the way her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders. The touch of her skin to mine.

“I’m all good,” I say. The sudden introduction of other people is lessening the anxiety. Slightly. Just enough that I offer the three of them a terse smile and get to my feet.

My hands are shaking, and my throat feels like a tennis ball, but I work through it, winding my fingers together and meeting each of their gazes. After an anxiety attack, I sometimes feel like I’ve just finished a triathlon. Exhausted and spent, worn out and soaking wet, every muscle in my body trembling from the effort.

“Sorry,” I choke, feeling like an alternate version of myself. “I—uh, well, I’m supposed to pick up the girls today.”

Callum called the other day to ask me about why I’d left Jameson’s so quickly. I was in the airport, waiting for my flight out to Denver, and told him about what happened. He was quiet for a long time, then said he had no idea that I’d even lost someone.

“Shit,” Callum says, now shaking his head. “I knew that, didn’t I? You want a hand?”

“Oh,” I laugh, taking a step back. Just a week ago, he invited me to come have a beer with him for the first time, and now I’m already dragging him into my personal shit? “No, that’s—”

“Listen, man,” Callum steps forward, waving backward at Sloane and ushering me toward the locker room. “We’re family, you know? I want to be there for you. Can I come with you today? Or help you with anything else?”

He looks so earnest, I feel myself loosening.

“Actually…” I sigh, hauling my pads from my shoulders and meeting his eyes. “Yeah. If you can—it might actually be helpful to have another pair of hands on deck. I just need to shower, and we can go.”

Callum slaps me on the shoulder and turns back to talk to Sloane. I don’t mean to, but I look in that direction too, my gaze catching on Astrid’s.

She’s looking back at me carefully, studying me, and I feel the warmth spreading from my toes up to my hairline. I want to get her alone again, ask her why, exactly, she took off from that guest room, and left Ireland completely without even saying goodbye.

I’ll be disappointed if I find out she’s just not interested in a relationship—if that’s the reason she left. I can handle the disappointment, though. It would be much better than the uncertainty.

Though only a second has passed, it feels like longer, and Astrid is still holding my gaze, brow furrowed, like she’s thinking. I want to ask her, but I don’t have time.

My eyes dart up to the clock on the wall—I’ll have to find her later. Right now, I have to get to the airport on time to pick up my new roommates.

Astrid

Sloaneisbehindthewheel, her eyes cutting to me as we speed along through Milwaukee. Right now, she’s dressed like a recent divorcée in an old movie, setting off on a road trip to find herself. There’s a paisley patterned scarf tied around her hair to keep it from flying, wide sunglasses perched on her nose, and little ruffles around the straps of her sundress.

Next to her, I look like the tween sibling coming along for the ride, in a simple pair of jean shorts, Adidas, and a plain T-shirt.

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