Page 84 of Goalie Lessons

A goal on the first fucking shot of the game.

“Shake it off, O’Connor,” Luca says, skating past me and tapping his stick against my pads. “We’ll get it back—just get your head in the game, alright?”

“Alright,” I answer, lamely.

I can’t shake it off. I can’t shake anything off—the only thing I can think about is Astrid scrambling out of that hotel room like it was on fire last night. The lawyer on the phone, talking about custody of the girls. The tone of Athena’s voice when I told her that she would be spending another night with Savannah, because I had yet another away game to play.

After the following face-off, the Rangers maintain pressure in our zone. I make a routine save on a shot, but fumble on the rebound, watching as the puck bounces dangerously in the crease before Maverick manages to clear it.

“Freeze it!” Luca shouts, and while his tone isn’t unkind, I can’t help the feeling of shame that’s already rooting inside my chest. Sweat pools beneath my mask, and I have to focus on taking a couple of deep breaths.

Play goes on, and during the TV timeout, I skate to the bench to refill my water. My legs are heavy, my movements mechanical. My body isn’t responding to me but acting like a free agent doing whatever the hell it wants.

“You’re thinking too much,” Coach says, leaning over the boards. “Justplay.” After several times up and down the ice, the Ranger’s star forward breaks loose with the puck. I come out to challenge, but I get the angle wrong. I’m too deep in the crease, and when I drop to butterfly, my weight shifts awkwardly to the side.

The puck sails over my right shoulder and into the net.

I have to get my shit together, and fast—I can feel Coach’s eyes on me, and know that he’s already wondering if he should pull me, put Martinez in instead.

Then the reality hits me—ImissAstrid. She would know what to say right now, some trick that would help me shake out of this.

At first, thinking about her just makes me feel worse, but then I think about hiking together, being at the farmer's market. All those coping mechanisms I could use to stave off the anxiety, to make it through an attack, to keep one from coming on in the first place.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I suck in a breath and think about eating chili at the table with Astrid and the girls. A happy place.

When I open my eyes, my body feels steady, my mind clearer. It’s working.

I grip my stick and hope Astrid is watching this game right now, because it would give her a hell of a lot of information for her case study.

Astrid

Thegoodthingaboutbeing in L.A. when I run out of Grayson’s hotel room is that I don’t have to book myself a flight out. Instead, I just walked out onto the street, booked a room in the hotel adjacent to his, and slid into the bath, letting my chin slide down to the water.

It takes an hour before my heart stops beating hard enough to make the water ripple around my body. It takes another hour before I muster the energy to pull my body from the water, and another before I’m finally tired enough to fall asleep.

The moment I wake up, seeing the sunshine through the window, I feel horrible.

I pull the blankets around myself and think about everything I told Grayson yesterday—word vomiting the entire story about my parents.

Thatnevershould have happened. It was a huge mistake, and I’m not sure what possessed me to think it would be okay.

Rather than sit in bed and stew in my thoughts, I force myself to get up.

My little stint in Milwaukee is done. There’s no way I can go back there—no matter how much I was enjoying it, and no matter how much I enjoyed being near Sloane. I can’t risk being around Grayson, seeing him every day.

Besides, there’s no way I have enough of a case study put together to win a research position. Might as well come back to L.A., find another cookie cutter apartment, and tell Sloane if she wants to hang out, she has to come to California.

As I pack my things into my suitcase, I wonder if I should start applying for grad school, get a degree in something else.

My phone rings right after I check out of the hotel, and before I even reach into my pocket, I know it’s Sloane.

“Astrid?”

“Sloane,” I return, working to keep my voice as level as possible. I hesitate, wondering if I’ll be able to keep this short enough to leave, or if I should wait inside.

“Where did you go? I thought you were coming to the next game?”

“Decided not to.” I keep my voice breezy, but that doesn’t seem to be working. Sloane lowers hers, and I can practically see her looking back and forth, making sure nobody hears her when she speaks again.

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