Page 18 of Goalie Lessons

“Acting like everything is okay,” I say, the words coming out of me before I can stop them. “It’s not going to work. The pretending is going to wear on you too, give you another anxiety attack.”

To my shock, he slaps another fake smile on his face, shaking his head.

“Astrid,” he laughs a little, the tone of his voice so forced I’m surprised he’s even trying to pass it off as genuine. “I’m totally fine. A little stressed, sure, but—”

“Why are you even trying to lie to me about this?” I cross my arms and lean against the door jamb. “It’s so obvious that something is wrong.”

Finally, the smile falls off his face, his expression something between confusion and frustration. He sighs, thrusts an impatient hand into his hair, and looks off down the hallway, like someone might come up the stairs and save him from this interaction.

Turning back to me, he says, “I don’t really see why you get an opinion on this.”

He doesn’t say it, but I can hear the rest of the statement—I don’t get an opinion on this because we hardly know one another. Because the one time I did get close to him, I snuck off the next morning before we could see where it would go from there.

The moment the subject starts to float in the air around us—like something he could reach up, pluck down, and bring to the light of day—I put my hands up, pushing off the doorjamb.

“You’re right.” I look down at the floor, anything to keep from meeting his gaze. “You’re absolutely right—I don’t.”

The last thing I want is for him to ask about it. To force me to explain it. If he’s already having a hard time with this, me adding to it isn’t going to help. I start to slip past him, make my way down the hallway, but he catches me by the wrist, pulling me back gently.

“Astrid, wait,” Grayson says, brow furrowed, eyes on the point where his thumb swipes over the bones of my wrist. Then he looks up at me, and I know I’m fucked when he continues, “I thought we had a connection. A good time. But then you…I was just wondering why. If you’re willing to answer.”

My throat is suddenly starting to feel too big in my neck. He’s studying me, staring right at me, and I cast about in my mind, searching for an excuse that makes sense.

For the briefest millisecond, I think about telling him the truth.

But the only thing I can think to do is pull a page from his book. Laughing, I slap a grin on my face and take a step away from him, so his hand falls from me and hangs between us. Shivers still race up my arm like aftershocks of his touch.

“It’s nothing,” I laugh again, push my hair behind my ears. “You know, just one of those things.”

But he’s not letting me go easily, gaze still locked on mine.

Instead of coming clean, I double down. If this interaction is telling me anything, it’s that Graysonabsolutelycannot handle the truth of why I didn’t stick around that night.

“It’s not you,” I mumble, finally, feeling like the world’s biggest cliché. “It’s me. I just…had somewhere to be.”

His expression doesn’t change, still hovering in uncertainty, but I can’t take this interaction anymore. Gesturing to my left, I say, a little too loudly, “Bathroom is all yours.”

Then I turn on my heel and practically sprint down the steps, only taking a breath when I’m outside and Sloane comes over, pushing another drink in my hand, laughing, and drawing me back into the thrum of the party.

Grayson

Thesunhoversoverthe horizon, spilling out amber light and flitting around, appearing only briefly between glinting buildings before disappearing again. I rest one hand on the steering wheel, gently turning into the curve of the highway as we leave the barbecue.

Calliope and Athena are in the backseat. Athena is fast asleep, having finally given in to the fun and swimming to her heart’s content. It was the slightest bit of relief, to see her smile for the first time since landing in Milwaukee.

Her sister, though, was much more stubborn. Refusing to get in the water, insisting only on sitting on the side of the pool and letting her feet dangle inside. The only time I saw her mask of anger crack was when Leo sat next to her, excited, talking to her about a kids’ movie until she finally gave in and said something back to him.

Athena nibbled on a strawberry. Calliope took a single bite of a plain hamburger. Both of them insisted they were not hungry.

“Who was that boy?”

The sound of Calliope’s voice is so unexpected in the cab of the quiet car that I physically jolt before meeting her eyes sheepishly in the rear-view mirror. She’s sitting with her arms crossed, which seems to be her default position. And she looks somewhat pleased with herself for having taken me by surprise.

“That was Leo,” I say, hands moving as I turn the car, maneuvering it out of the city and toward my suburb. “He’s Maverick and Ruby’s little boy.”

Both girls received introductions to various players, most of which I assume they will not remember. Everyone was welcoming, trying to make them feel at home. I could have saved them some time and told them that so far, that tactic has not been fruitful.

“Hmm.” Calliope sniffs, runs her hand under her nose, sniffs again.

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