Page 2 of Goalie Lessons

“Huh,” I’d said, dropping my hand into my chin, mind already churning with what could possibly cause something like that.

“Astrid,” Sloane said, jostling her shoulder against mine. “Don’t even try to psychoanalyze him from here. It won’t work.”

Now, mind slamming back to the present, I say to Grayson, somewhat stupidly, “What’s up?”

A lopsided grin stretches over his face, like he might know what’s running through my head. “Grayson. Grayson O’Connor.”

“Oh,” I blink at him, recalibrating. For some reason, I hear myself pretending that I don’t know exactly who he is. That he could be some long-lost relative from the Irish countryside.

“Irish?” I ask.

“I, uh, wouldn’t know,” he raises his hand, like he might scrub it over his head, then snaps it away as if someone has warned him off messing with it too many times today.

Shit, if this is his hair styled, I’d love to see it wild, his fingers combing it out.

I blink in shock at my own thoughts and glance down at the cocktail in my hand, blaming it for these thoughts in my head. DamnSloane Ranger.

“Actually,” he goes on, “I was wondering if you know where I’m supposed to sit? I couldn’t find the planner, and I want to make sure I’m not in the way—”

“Oh, yeah,” I point to the other side of the courtyard, where a long table is set up for the wedding party. “We’ll be over there.”

“You too?”

“Yeah, the entire party.”

“Great.” When he smiles, dimples pop on either side of his lips, tiny divots that are suddenly carved into my mind.

I find an excuse to get away from him, because—what the hell? This drink must be stronger than I thought.

Grayson’s handsome, sure, but objectively, it’s not like he’s even the best-looking guy at this party. There’s Maverick Hawkins, with his dark hair and dark eyes, the whole leather -jacket-and-motorcycle thing going for him. Luca, who’s all-American golden boy, straight-sloping nose and charming smile. Marcus Johnson, with a thick beard and serious dad energy. Tyler Chen with his jet-black hair, bright eyes, and buoyant personality.

But, for some reason, I haven’t even glanced at the other hockey guys, never shown an interest in the big, buff type. So how do I explain the erratic pace of my heart after talking to Grayson?

Callum and Sloane return to cheers and whistles. Callum’s cheeks are flushed, and he can’t stop himself from glancing over at his new bride any chance he gets. We dive into the food, which is good enough for me to forget about the interaction with Grayson, Grayson O’Connor, for at least fifteen minutes.

Luca gives his toast, then it's time for mine. I warned Sloane that it wouldn’t be any good—she’s the writer—but she insisted she needed a toast from me, her best friend and maid of honor.

Hands trembling slightly, I stand in front of the wedding guests and hold my paper. I don’t really need it—I’ve rehearsed my speech enough that it’s practically burned into my head. But it’s something to hold on to as I speak.

“The first time I met Sloane, she hugged me, then cried—and that was all before saying hello,” I start, relaxing a bit as I go, telling them about how Sloane and I met in college, then about the first time I met Callum—and how I knew instantly that they were soul mates. When I get to the end of the toast, Sloane is wiping tears away from her eyes—gently, with Q-Tips—and I can’t bear to look at her, or I’ll start crying, too.

So, instead, I find my eyes settling on Grayson O’Connor. To my surprise, he holds my gaze right back, like we’re good friends, and it makes sense that I would look at him like this.

“…and that’s why this wedding comes with a thousand told-you-so’s from me. And I look forward to saying them at each anniversary, and every milestone the two of you will share. Cheers.”

I rip my eyes away from Grayson as the guests clap, cheering and raising their glasses. Taking my glass, I toss the champagne back, feeling the smooth, warm sensation as it travels down to my stomach.

After the toasts, we finish the meal. Callum and Sloane head out for the first dance. Of course, it’s highly coordinated and special, and there are even rose petals released over the dance floor, floating gently down over them.

I’m watching the scene when the wedding planner—looking slightly frazzled—catches me by the arm.

“Hey,” she says, breathing hard, “I need you to switch dance partners.”

I blink. “What?”

Her eyes dart over to Mandy, Sloane’s sister-in-law, who is looking upset, her hair coming loose from her carefully clipped curls. Luca, Sloane’s brother, is trying to comfort her.

“Luca’s going to dance with Mandy instead,” the planner says, forcing a tight smile. “No big deal.”

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