Page 31 of Goalie Lessons

The words are there, but I can’t tell her,If I think about it, the anxiety is going to remember me, and it’s going to come back.

So I just say, “Three. What’s yours?”

“My what?”

“Anxiety level.”

Her eyebrows rise again. “I’m the one asking the questions.”

My laugh is a little harsher than I mean it to be. “At least you’re gettingyouranswers.”

I hadn’t meant to bring it up again, to point to this thing hanging between us.

To keep her from having to respond, I turn back to the view, taking it all in. Maybe if I could stay like this, up on this little hill, staring down at the world around me made small, my situation might not seem so dire.

Like this, I’m reminded that I’m just one person, and I’m doing my best. For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of a gentle breeze rolling past us, rifling through the leaves. The crunch of Astrid’s boots as she shifts her weight.

Then, she breaks the spell, leaning side to side to crack her back and turning to me with an unreadable expression.

“Ready to head back down?”

Astrid

ThesecondIgetinto my car, I crank the AC and point it at myself. I was fine until we got to the top of that incline. Until Grayson O’Connor was leaning in, his body in my space, that familiar awareness spreading over my skin. Until I was asking him questions, yet again, and he was evading them.

Verbally, no, but mostly in his behavior. How his eyes cut away from me, how he’d focus on something else, turning to look out at the view instead of meeting my gaze. He may have agreed to this for Callie’s sake, but it’s clear he’s not that interested in being a test subject.

As I pull out onto the road, I crack the window and let the fresh air come in. I’ve been like this since I was a kid—wanting the air or heat on, but also wanting the window open. Now that I’m an adult, it’s my ultimate victory in the world, to have this combination of temperature control and the blast of the AC against my skin, over my sweaty hair.

On the way back down the hill, we hardly said anything to one another. If I asked a question, Grayson answered tepidly, carefully, not giving me much to work with. It was obvious he wasn’t a hiker, or really an outdoorsy kind of guy, and I hated how much I wanted to change that.

How muchIwanted to be the one to introduce him to the way it could feel, to finish a hike in the morning and go to a brewery, ravenous for lunch in the afternoon. The way sweat cooling on your skin in the sunshine made you feel like a newly minted person. How a hot shower later that night would melt you in all the right ways.

Unbidden, my mind offers me the image of Grayson in the shower, all long limbs and rounded muscles. Specifically, I picture the spot just below his elbow, that soft curve of muscle covered in dark hair. The way I’d wanted to reach out, pinch it between my fingers today. What it would look like, feel like, to be standing in the shower with Grayson, permission to touch him in any place I wanted.

“No,” I say out loud, firmly, hoping this will be enough to shake myself from the thoughts. There is areasonI’m not engaging with Grayson, why it’s important that I keep these images to myself and far away from the decision-making portions of my brain.

My car circles the highway, and the city opens up in front of me. I stare at the exits, mind working. Callum is definitely awake by now, probably working out at home, or having gone into the practice facility. I remember, suddenly, that Sloane said she was going in to work on her podcast today, in the Slap Shot office.

As I take the exit, I think about the last time I was in that building, nearly two years ago. Watching as Sloane conducted an interview with players from the Frost—including Grayson. Watching as she and Callum got to their knees in front of each other, pulling out rings, being completely ridiculous.

Outwardly, I’d hated it. Inside, I completely melted.

Downtown Milwaukee springs to life around me, the buildings slowly getting taller. I drink it in, feeling a strange sense of contentment, despite the fact that I’m still dressed for the hike, covered in sweat, and not looking anything like the businesspeople that pass by on the street.

I push in through the lobby and follow the directory: Slapshot Media, fourth floor.

When the elevator dings and lets me in, I realize the space has come a long way since I was here last. The lobby is drenched in golden oak, the long reception desk stretching almost the length of one wall, an intricate pattern of wood telling me that Sloane probably sourced it from some sort of furniture artisan, a local thing shehadto have in her office.

In fact, looking around, I can almost picture exactly what Sloane was thinking with all the pieces, colors ranging between a puritan pine and American oak, the cushions and fabrics green, plants sprouting up around the space in pots, along the ceiling, around the reception desk. Spanning the wall behind the desk are huge, blown up pictures of famous hockey moments, sticks raised, confetti falling. It’s like a snapshot of the edit at the start of a documentary, to the point where you can almost hear the cheering when you look at it.

I think of my office at the center, what it would be like to have a space like this that really felt like my own.

“Astrid?”

I turn to the sound of my name, surprised to find Sydney standing at the start of the hallway, her mouth open, expression quickly turning to a bright smile.

“Oh my god,” she says, stepping in and roping me into a hug. Sydney is a lot like Sloane—a hugger and a bright, friendly person. “Sloane didn’t even tell me you were in the city! That bitch.”

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