Page 37 of Goalie Lessons

“What…what exactly would you say was the problem?”

“Astrid,” Brianna laughs. “Are you askingmeto psychoanalyzeyou?”

“No,” I choke, actually laughing, too, realizing how silly this is. My heart skips when the door to the practice facility opens, and I duck inside my car, hurrying to start it and get the air conditioning on my face. Brianna’s voice stutters as she comes through the car’s stereo.

“…like you wanted to dig into everyone else, but nobody was allowed to do that to you, I guess. A bit hypocritical, is all.” I sit in silence for so long that she says, “Astrid?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” My hands shake as I grab my water bottle and take a sip. “Thanks, Brianna. I’ll talk to the doorman and let you know.”

“Okay,” she says. Then, after a moment, “You know, Astrid, you are the only person I haveevercheated on.”

“I believe you,” I laugh. “You seem too nice for it.”

“Oh, it istearin’me up.”

“You should really talk to someone about that.”

That makes her laugh, and after we hang up, I sit in my car for far too long. Long enough to know that Grayson doesn’t come out for hours after our conversation, his car still sitting in the parking lot, when I finally drive away.

***

Monday passes by in a blur. I get to the community center early and bury myself in my work. Georgia only drops by once to check on me, her smiling face bright and chipper as always. I eat lunch alone in my office, scooping a chickpea salad into my mouth while staring at the screen. Later in the afternoon, I pop out once to fill my water bottle and use the restroom, then return.

Everyone else leaves, one by one. The custodian knocks on the door, comes in to empty the trash, then tells me to have a good night. I stay for another hour after that, and when I’m just stepping out to leave, she’s putting the cleaning supplies back in a closet.

“Great,” she says. “I’ll lock up and we can leave together.”

As we push through the front door, the sun is setting over the parking lot, casting the sky in rich orange and purple hues. Birds sing to the left and right, and a few kids go by on bikes, laughing and squealing.

There’s already a car idling in the parking lot, and she climbs inside, waving to me as I head over to mine. By the time I climb inside and try to start it, the custodian is long gone. My car makes a valiant effort, the engine sputtering and sputtering, but dying out before it can come to life.

“No,” I whisper gently, like the car might hear the sound of my voice and take pity on me. I’m exhausted—I’ve been working for almost fourteen hours, and the only thing I want to do is go back to Sloane’s and fall into bed.

When the engine still doesn’t come to life, I try, “Please.”

But this Toyota Camry doesn’t give a shit about the day I’ve had.

Sighing, I press the button for emergency assistance, and the woman who answers asks me if I’ve been in an accident, and if my car is in a safe place, away from traffic. I glance to the left and right, at the dwindling light, the bugs starting to gather around the lamps, and the fact that I’m the only person in this entire parking lot.

“No accident,” I say. “I’m in a parking lot. I think my battery is dead.”

She disappears for a moment, then comes back on to tell me that it’s looking like it might be a few hours wait—there’s some sort of music festival in town this weekend, and all the mechanics and tow companies are busy.

“Okay,” I sigh, letting my head fall against the steering wheel. When I’m off the line with her, I try Sloane. She doesn’t answer the phone, so I text.

Astrid:Hey, sorry to bother you. Car battery is dead. SOS?

I wait five minutes, and when I don’t get a reply from her, I try Callum.

Astrid:Where is your wife?? Tell her to look at her phone, please :(

Ten minutes after that, I have nothing from either of them. I try Sloane again, and when she doesn’t answer once more, I’m left staring at the number for the only other person I know in Milwaukee.

The man that I just had the most awkward encounter of my life with yesterday. Whom I haven’t spoken to since telling him he sucks at sex.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter, rolling my head on the steering wheel.

Then, I lift my head and force myself to hit the button and make the call. The first two rings go through, and I start to think he might not answer. I start to think that might be the best-case scenario, actually—maybe I can just sleep in my car, do a good old bathroom pit-wipe, and pray nobody in the center realizes this is the exact same outfit I was wearing the day before.

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