Page 63 of Goalie Lessons

“Callie, you forgot your bag,” he says, swinging up a little bag through the window. Sloane catches it and hands it to the backseat.

“Oh,” Callie says, grabbing it without a care in the world. “Thanks.”

Grayson’s gaze shifts to me, and I realize I’m staring.

“Astrid, hi,” he says. My cheeks are impossibly warm—whoam I? Not this woman. Not the one who blushes, who can’t stop looking at him, who can’t stop thinking about that fresh, clean, aloe-like scent he left behind in the hotel room yesterday.

“Hey,” I say, as casually as possible, because Sloane is looking between the two of us, and I know her journalism muscles are already flexing, her mind already working through what this strange exchange means.

“Oh,” Grayson straightens up, digs into his pocket, and pulls out a card, holding it through the window. “Here’s this. I called ahead to let them know you might be making some big charges today.”

I stare at him. He’s a professional athlete, of course, so it’s not like he’s broke, or living paycheck-to-paycheck, but how much does a goalie even make? Is it enough to drop an undetermined amount on a junior high homecoming dance?

“Thankyou,” Sloane says, singing the last word and plucking it from his fingers. With a little smirk in my direction, she flicks the card into my lap, then grins at Grayson. “I’m sure you trust Astrid to handle it.”

His eyes flick to mine. Then he swallows and says, “Sure.”

For fuck’s sake, he might as well wear a sign on his face that saysAstrid Foster and I are messing aroundfor how much information he’s giving Sloane right now.

“Sure,” she repeats cheekily, before glancing at me, her eyes wide. “Alright, see you later. We’re getting Callie a homecoming dress!”

With that, Grayson steps away from the car, and we peel backward out of the driveway. I catch his eyes in that moment between reverse and drive, when we’re hovering in the road, and hold it for a second too long as we drive away.

I immediately launch into a discussion with Callie so Sloane can’t grill me for details. It’s futile, anyway—she’s perceptive enough that I know there’s going to be a knock on my door later tonight, a look from her, a raised eyebrow.

When we swing into the mall parking lot twenty minutes later, Sloane kills the engine and jumps out, beaming and holding her arms out to Ruby Romano, who walks forward with a sure step and wraps Sloane up in her arms.

I’ve only met her on a few occasions, but Ruby is the kind of woman you remember. She’s a high-powered executive type, assertive and sharp. Just as perceptive as Sloane, but with a cooler edge. When I first met her, her hair was sleek and straightened, but now it’s a bit softer around the edges, some natural curls peeking through.

She’s gorgeous. Maverick Hawkins is a lucky man.

“Oh, I’m so excited!” Ruby says, brushing the hair out of her eyes with a single finger, gaze flicking to Callie. “Shopping for a girl—I’ve beendeprivedof this. And you’resopretty—I remember you from the barbecue. This is going to be a lot of fun.”

Callie’s cheeks light up with a pink blush, and I know that if that compliment came from anyone else, she wouldn’t think it was genuine. But Ruby gives off the vibe of someone who wouldn’t waste her breath on fake platitudes.

I almost wish she’d givemea compliment. Something like,Astrid, your outfit strikes the perfect chord between put-together and not-even-trying.

But we just move together into the mall, with Ruby, Sloane, and Callie chatting about the dance, talking about her friends and if she knows what they’re wearing, if she has any ideas for what she might want to look for.

Ruby takes control of the operation right away, and Callie cycles through dresses quickly. The first is a white and blue floral A-line, which Callie doesn’t like, and Ruby says washes her out. The dresses keep coming: a deep mossy blue, a bright honeycomb, a sparkling cream. Lacey, chiffon, silk, satin. My eyes start to glaze over, and I’m glad I brought Sloane and Ruby, who consider each dress carefully, picking over the details and giving Callie the attention she deserves.

We break for lunch, and I dive into my salad, glad for the break from the sharp, intense perfumes of the dress stores.

Ruby stabs her fork into her stir-fry, saying, “You know what I think? I think we need to get out of the mall.”

“Ruby,” Sloane laughs, shaking her head, “it’s just homecoming—”

“Oh, please, Sloane,” Ruby says, waving her hand, “First—remember your homecoming? You were over there taking dance classes for it. And second, I need this. Let me have it. You have no idea what it’s like living with two boys who only care about hockey and chafe against anything nicer than a simple collared shirt.”

Sloane opens her mouth, raises her finger, but retreats by the end of Ruby’s argument, giving in.

“Callie?” she hikes an eyebrow. “What do you think? Ruby would like to take you to some nicer stores. Would you be comfortable with that?”

To my surprise, Callie turns to look at me, her eyes wide, like she genuinely wants to know what my answer is going to be. Like what I say could persuade her one way or the other.

I stab a few more pieces of spinach onto my fork, tilt my head side to side, and say, “What’s the worst that happens? We hate them and have to come back to the mall?”

Callie giggles and Ruby says, “That’s absolutely right, Astrid.”

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