Page 66 of Goalie Lessons

She raises her hand and waves at me, grinning, and I get off the ice as fast as I can.

Astrid

Ofcourse,Sloanemanagedto talk me into an impromptu trip to Minneapolis.

It has nothing to do with her suspicions of Grayson and me. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself, even though the look she gave me when she slid the flight confirmation across the counter told me that itverymuch has to do with that. She loves to meddle, and I have no doubt that she wants to get Grayson and I together in front of her again so she can examine our interactions, pick them apart.

What will she find when she does? Will she getShe’s teaching him how to be good at sexfrom the way we talk to each other? Maybe that’s not the problem—maybe the problem is that if Sloane watches me, pays attention to the way I look at him, she might pick out something about Grayson and me that Idefinitelydon’t want to examine just yet.

Because Sloane is the team manager, she rides on the Frost plane, which means I have to take my own, separate flight. Which means that, although I’m booked in the same hotel as the players and Sloane, I arrive several hours after them, wheeling my suitcase through a mostly empty lobby.

By the time I make it to the arena, I realize I should have layered up more. It’s not like Minneapolis and Milwaukee are that far apart, or that different in climate, but the cold just feels particularly sharp here, with an edge to it that cuts right through the sweatshirt I’m wearing under my jersey.

Is wearing Grayson’s jersey going to throw Sloane off the trail? No, but I’d weighed the pros and cons in the hotel room while getting ready, staring at it on the hanger. It’s the only jersey I have. I bought it, at random, years ago, not even knowing who he was, so if Sloane says anything, I can counter, remind her that this is the Frost jersey I’ve always had.

And, besides, I liked the way Grayson looked at me the last time he saw me wearing it.

Wild fans mill around outside, laughing and drinking, watching the game—for some reason I absolutely can’t comprehend—on large screens outside. I walk past them, flash my QR code to the ticket taker, and find my way to the box.

Most arenas have some sort of VIP section with food and drink, special seats, and Sloane always gives me the tickets for those spots. I’m thankful for it, not sure I could stand the nightmare of being in the stands, getting beer spilled on me, random men shouting in my ear.

I take an escalator up and follow the signs to my seat. When I step inside, I sweep my eyes over the space, taking in the bartender on the other side of the room, the group of mostly Wild fans, and linger on the three people near the front, all wearing Frost jerseys.

“Ms. Foster!”

When Athena launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my mid-section, my mind finally digests it—Callie and Athena, with their heads of copper hair, accompanied by someone else.

“Hi,” the girl says. “I’m Savannah—you must be Astrid.”

I blink at her, reaching out and taking her hand. Simply put, Savannah is gorgeous, with pin-straight black hair, a round face, and perfect makeup, coordinated with her Frost jersey. Little snowflakes float up and around her eyes toward her hairline. She wears a pair of wide-leg, light blue checkered pants I’m sure would look ridiculous on me, but she manages to make effortless. On her, Grayson’s jersey looks like a fashion statement.

To my surprise, she sticks her hand out, still grinning at me, and at a loss for something better to do, I take it, noting her shake is particularly strong, sure.

“I am,” I finally manage to answer. “And you are…?”

“Savannah,” she says, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “The new nanny!”

How ridiculous, the weird feeling that settles in my chest. It’s not like Grayson is required to tell me about his choices when it comes to the girls. Besides, I haven’t seen him at all this week. What did I expect? For him to pick up his phone and text me to let me know he decided to hire a nanny?

“Nice to meet you,” I force out, wondering if it sounds as forced as it feels.

What is wrong with me?

The girls crowd around me, taking turns talking as we settle into seats. Callie tells me all about her homecoming experience—after Savannah picked her up from school, she took her to the luxury salon in downtown Milwaukee, where several of the staff buzzed around her, excited to be getting a girl ready for homecoming.

Callie had her nails painted and had her hair done, she tells me, in a half-up, half-down, even though she wanted to just leave it down. Savannah thought half-up would look best with the dress.

Her pictures are stunning, and she looks genuinely happy with her friend group. It’s allgood, Callie adjusting to the location, meeting other kids and getting along with them, engaging in the extracurriculars.

So why does the gnawing sensation in my chest feel like termites are trying to eat their way out?

Why do I feel like I’ve been excluded?

I push it away, not ready to unpack it, and think about the implications. These girls don’t even really belong to Grayson, and they certainly don’t belong to me.

Down on the ice, Grayson is having a great game. I watch him carefully, wondering if I might be able to guess at his anxiety levels from here. If they're anything but low, he’s great at hiding it.

When the game ends, I only realize I’m still standing at the glass, watching him, when he looks up and sees me. The grin that spreads over his face makes my stomach flip, heart thudding heavily again, beating extra hard like it can’t get enough oxygen to my cells.

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