Page 3 of Goalie Lessons

“But we planned best man and maid of honor,” I say, shaking my head, thinking about the rehearsal where I danced with Luca, feeling like I was dancing with a cardboard cutout more than a man. While he is, objectively, very handsome, he’s both not my type, and my best friend’s brother.

The wedding planner shrugs. “Change of plans. Sorry, you’re dancing with him, instead.”

I follow her finger to where Grayson stands, hands in his pockets, like he’s not sure what to do with them. The back of my neck flushes like I’m back in junior high, staring down the boys on the other side of the gymnasium.

Leave it to Mandy—fuckingMandy—to make this day all about her, rather than just going with what we’ve rehearsed.

“Okay,” I say, not wanting to be difficult. The poor planner clearly has enough on her hands right now.

The song changes, and couples drift out together like we practiced. Except this time, Luca and Mandy move onto the floor together first, joining Sloane and Callum.

“Hello again,” Grayson says, dipping his head so I can hear him over the music. His cologne is something subtle, fresh. “Okay if I…?”

He gestures to my waist with his hands, and I nod, suddenly wordless. When he settles his hands on my hips, the heat of the action licks up my sides, zinging through my body like adrenaline, making me feel anchored all at once.

We move onto the floor, and when I loop my arms around his neck, bringing us closer together, our bodies form together effortlessly. He doesn’t speak, but his hands tighten on my hips, and I breathe in the fresh scent of him. After that glass of champagne, I’ve declined any more drinks, deciding they weren’t helping me clear my head of this weird, lusting fog.

The quartet plays Sunday Morning by Maroon 5, and the couples drift around us. Luca and Mandy are silent, while Sloane and Callum talk the entire time, staring into each other’s eyes and laughing. When I make eye contact with Sloane over Grayson’s shoulder, her cheeks are wet, and she sticks her tongue out at me.

When I look back at Grayson, he’s smiling. I have an impulsive urge to rise up and kiss him, but I push that away, blaming it on the Sloane Ranger. When the song ends, Grayson lets his hands linger on my waist for a moment, then disentangles himself from me. As the night goes on, I catch glimpses of him. Joking around with his friends, elbows back against the bar. There’s something easy about him I hadn’t noticed before, something wide open and gentle.

We lock eyes too many times. Enough that I think he just might be looking at me, too. Finding me in the crowd, picking me out and lingering there until I look up, catching him watching.

Sloane and Callum play their specific dance songs, with Sloane changed into her flowy white pantsuit for more ease in choreography. People laugh and try to join in as classic 80's music pumps through the speakers.

Drinks flow, but I don’t take them. Instead, I chug water, dance with Katie and Sloane, and feel his eyes on me from across the room. Every once in a while, I look over at the other women, wondering if they’re catching this, the constant back-and-forth between the goalie and me. I can’t be imagining this tether between us, ethereal and floating. Maybe we’re the only two people in the world who can see it, feel it, but it’s there.

The reception winds down, with people peeling off to their rooms one by one. At some point, Grayson disappears, and I try to ignore the tugging sense of doubt in my stomach. That it might have all been in my head, that he wasn’t actually looking at me the way I thought.

Sloane and Callum run down the long stone steps together, climbing into a long black limousine. They’re off to the airport, out of Ireland, on the first leg of their honeymoon. We wave goodbye to them, throw more rose petals.

I have one more night in Ireland before flying home. Turning, I make my way back to my guestroom, thinking about how quickly I can get this damn dress off. Only to find Grayson O’Connor, standing outside my door, looking sheepish.

“Oh, hey,” he says, turning, cheeks flushed a delicious shade of pink. “Sorry. I thought—”

Saying nothing, I reach up, grab the base of his tie, rise on my tiptoes, and give in to the frantic, consistent need that’s been coursing through me all night.

Grayson

“Al-right,O’Connor!”

Maverick Hawkins pumps his fist in the air as he skates over to me with a delighted expression. Luca, our team captain, skates away, rolling his eyes, but there’s a smile on his face.

He’s just shot at my goal, and I’ve just blocked him. Again.

There’s a certain sort of tension between the goalies and forwards during practice. It’s not like Luca doesn’t want me to block his shot, because my skill means we’re going to block shots in games, but he also doesn’t want to get shut down either.

Which is exactly what I’m doing.

I’ve always been good at hockey—ask anyone in the NHL, and they’ll tell you the same story—but this season already feels different to me. My limbs are looser. I move faster, respond to the puck better. It’s like, at some point between last season and now, something vital finally clicked in place, and everyone can see it.

We launch back into the scrimmage, and I watch as the guys go back and forth. Hockey isn’t like any other sport—the puck moves so fast there are no real possessions in this game. Just sticks clacking, the play whizzing over the ice, the wrist flicks and quick movements adding up to an eventual goal, the buzzer sounding.

I only have to hope I’m good enough that it’s notmygoal the puck sinks into.

My eyes follow the line of the play, used to how the puck travels, how it changes course in a matter of milliseconds. I watch Luca and Callum—and unstoppable team—working together to bring it down the rink, trading it with Nikolai Petrov as they go.

Maverick and the other D-men punish them for every move, forcing the puck back, slipping it out from under their noses. And this goes back and forth, the fight for the puck snappy, a barely controlled chaos.

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