Page 68 of Goalie Lessons

Sloane keeps glancing between us. I’m going to assume it has something to do with that.

“This okay?” Luca asks, stopping and pointing up at a bright green sign. His cheeks are flushed red, his golden hair flopping over his forehead, held there by his hat.

Nods and agreements chorus from us, and we file into the restaurant—a classic sort of pub and sports place with Irish beers and millions of TVs on the walls, low-lighting, and great food. My stomach growls loudly and I catch a smile curling on the corner of Astrid’s mouth, even as she decidedly ignores me, and the others laughing at the sound.

“Hey,” Maverick says, clapping me on the back. “You know what O’Connor.? Dinner’s on me. You deserve it after that crazy-ass block.”

Ruby laughs. “No, no, dinner is on me. The team earned it for pulling Maverick off of that guy.” She pauses, giving her husband a pointed look, and Maverick only shrugs, muttering something likeHe deserved itwhile we file back into the restaurant, toward a large, curving booth in the corner.

The other patrons stare after us, and it occurs to me for the first time tonight that it might not be a great idea to celebrate our win over the Wild right here in the center of the city. Not when pissed off Minnesota fans might be lurking, ready to take one for the team and push a Frost guy off his bar stool.

When we scoot into the booth, Sloane pauses, pulling back. “I’m going to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

Astrid glances at her friend, her eyes flashing as she says, “I’ll come with you.”

“No, no.” Sloane waves her back, already stepping backward into the crowded restaurant. “That’s alright—you just went at the hotel. I’ll only be a second, and it’s so crowded in here—no need for you to push your way through.”

Their gazes hold for a long moment, something passing between them, then Sloane slips away, and Astrid is left to slide into the booth. If anyone else in our group notices the subtext of the exchange, they don’t mention it.

Now, after sliding into the booth, Astrid is right beside me. I suck in a breath, stay looking at Ethan, who’s in the middle of telling a story. I don’t glance at Astrid, even when her thigh—which isfreezing—presses against mine.

When the server returns, Maverick orders every appetizer on the menu, and Sloane returns just a minute later, smiling and scooting in on the other side of the table, next to Callum. Leaning in, she whispers something in his ear, and his eyes dart to me before returning to his wife.

“…but the guy turned out to be hisbrother,” Ethan says, eliciting a wave of laughter and gasps, looks cast around the table, mouths dropped open. I laugh, too, but only because everyone else is. I’m too preoccupied with Astrid beside me, the brush of her hair against my shoulder, the smell of her perfume and—I think—her shampoo. It’s the smell I catch on the pillow and when I kiss the top of her head. Something minty and sharp.

I make a mental note to ask her about it the next time we’re alone.

“How are things going with the girls?”

I realize, after a beat, that this question was directed toward me—of course it was. Ruby leans forward, her straw held between her perfectly manicured fingers, her eyes on me. Her stark black hair shines under the overhead lights, and with her sharp gaze, it gives her the appearance of a black cat.

“Oh,” I laugh, glancing around the table, that familiar anxiety kicking just under my ribcage at the realization that all eyes are on me right now. “They’re doing good. Definitely eating more vegetables now.”

“That’s great.” The thing about Ruby is that she doesn’t say anything she doesn’t mean, and her eyes sparkle when she says, “I recently found these chocolate muffins with hidden vegetables—I’ll send you the link for them. Leo doesn’t even notice they’re in there, and he’ll eat them for breakfast.”

“Remind me never to have kids,” Ethan says, holding his hands up. “I can’t even getmyselfto eat vegetables.”

Luca laughs, then says to me, “Seriously, man, it’s beyond impressive that you’ve managed to hold it together like that. Can’t imagine what it must be like.”

The kick of anxiety gets stronger, and I feel my neck tense up, that slight tightening in my chest. Suddenly, the booth—the entire restaurant—feels claustrophobic.

Then something strange happens.

Astrid slides her hand onto my leg, squeezing my thigh.

Heat floods my body, that familiar coursing undercurrent of lust, but something else, too—the knowledge that Astrid is the only person in the world who could touch me right now and make me feel better. Her hand on my thigh is grounding, an outlet for the anxiety to leave my body and dissipate, like an opened window in a stuffy room.

“Thanks,” I manage, dipping my head, and thankfully, the server saves me from having to say any more by arriving with the appetizers, sliding massive plates of them onto the table and smiling, standing with the tray under her arm, eyes scanning to make sure everyone is happy with the array and condiments before taking off again.

“Alright!” Maverick says, clapping his hands together and rubbing them in a way that strikes me as surprisinglydad-like for a man in a leather jacket. “Someone pass me the mozzy sticks!”

Astrid

Ishouldn’treachoutand put my hand on Grayson’s thigh, but I do.

His leg is warm, bordering on obscenely hot, radiating heat that cuts through his pants and right into my hand. The touch of it makes me shiver, and think about what it would be like to have his arm around me on the street on the walk here.

I’d always thought that kind of thing was strictly for PDA—some sort of primitive claiming ritual held over from our caveman psychology. But maybe there’s some merit to it. Maybe, if the one person is huge and generating heat like a furnace, it just makes sense for them to sling an arm around the other.

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