Page 30 of Goalie Lessons

“Great,” I say, already swatting at phantom bites along my legs, the cool itch of the morning air giving rise to something heavier, humid. “I feel my anxiety going away already.”

***

I condition for an hour every morning before practice. There are physical therapists and personal trainers at the arena who design perfectly curated regimens for me. In my home, there’s a gym with a treadmill and weights. Objectively, I’m a very athletic guy.

So why am I heaving in air, desperately trying to bring oxygen to my deprived lungs, actuallyfeelingthe ache of my red blood cells?

Ahead of me, Astrid plows ahead like this is the easiest hike she’s ever been on, despite the fact that we’ve been climbing at a solid incline for the past five minutes, with no end in sight. Maybe the problem is that my body is used to the dry, frigid air of the rink. My lungs are used to receiving the oxygen from beer commercials, straight from the mountains, a refreshing sound effect with each breath.

They arenotused to sucking in what feels like mouthfuls of sauna-air, moist and thick, so phlegm rises in the back of my throat, sticky and stubbornly remaining each time I swallow. When I look around, it’s like I can practicallyseethe moisture rising from the dirt, evaporating into the air as the sun inches higher in the sky, cooking Astrid and me in this park.

“Grayson.”

I come to an abrupt stop to keep myself from completely bowling into Astrid, who has turned around and has her arms crossed, her gaze sweeping up and down a body. It makes a shiver run the length of my spine. I wonder if she notices.

“What?” I realize I’m wheezing.

“Why are you breathing like that?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow. It’s infuriating that she’s barely broken a sweat, breathing easily. Surely, California couldn’t have prepared her for a hike like this.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re rattling out your last breaths. Aren’t you supposed to be anelite athlete?”

“Iaman elite athlete. My specialization is not hiking.”

For a second, I imagine trying to do this trek in my full hockey gear, and I can practically feel what it would be like to lose consciousness, body shutting down due to the unfairness of it.

Astrid lets out a dry laugh, shrugs, and turns, nestling the mouthpiece of her Camelback between her lips. I’m staring because I’m thirsty—that’s all.

“Didn’t you bring any water?” she asks, dropping the piece from her mouth.

I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant about it. But no, I did not bring water. I didn’t even think about bringing water—that’s how little I was used to doing outdoorsy things. If I was at the rink, practicing, I’d never had to worry about water supply.

“Here,” Astrid says with a sigh, flipping the mouthpiece up to me. When I meet her eyes, I can feel the juvenile blush that’s spreading over my cheeks. How stupid. We’re both adults.

Adults that have kissed, I remind myself. This will not be the first time I’ve had her saliva in my mouth.

As though she can hear my thoughts, Astrid reaches up and pinches the mouthpiece between her fingers, using the sleeve of her jacket to wipe it off. I follow the movement, and when she’s done, I take a look at her face.

She’s blushing, too.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean into her space and take a drink. The water is cold, and I imagine her preparing, filling it the night before and putting it in the freezer. I picture her standing in the kitchen at Callum and Sloane’s, checking this one thing off her to-do list. Just like how she was at the wedding. Orderly, prepared.

Stopping myself from sucking the thing completely dry, I pull back and drop the mouthpiece, heaving in a deep breath. Suddenly, the air doesn’t feel quite so offensive, and the sun overhead is cheery, rather than overbearing.

With a startling clarity, I realize the view around us has changed.

We’re no longer surrounded by foliage, boxed in by trees on every side. Instead, we’re at the top of a small hill, Milwaukee sprawling out around us. It’s not high enough to see very far, but I can make out the gentle rolling smoke from a factory, see cars moving along the streets below.

A quiet little view of the city.

“Wow,” I breathe, and Astrid lets out another dry laugh, scribbling something down on her little notepad. I turn to her, unable to keep the laugh from bubbling out of me. “Wait, did you just quote me sayingwow?”

“No,” she laughs, then seems to remember to look stern. “I did not quote you. Remember, I’m not going to tell you what I’m recording. But tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your anxiety in this moment?”

I scratch the back of my head. “I don’t know. I’m not really thinking about it.”

“Well, can you? Just give me a number.”

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