Page 12 of Goalie Lessons

I flush and she stills, eyes moving over my expression like she can read something there.

“What? What is it? You got back to your room…?”

“I let him in.”

“You let him in.” Sloane circles her hand in the air as if to sayget on with it.

“And we had sex,” I say, shrugging like it doesn’t matter and leaning back in my floaty. That is not even close to being enough for Sloane, who seems like she would happily watch while I did a charade performance of the night.

At the look she gives me, I say, “I wish you never lost your virginity. You were easier to handle back when you were all nervous about sex.”

She waves her hand, like she’s swatting the thought from the air. “That’s it? What about the details, Astrid?”

“Don’t you get enough of this with Callum?”

“Come on, you just said it yourself: I was a virgin before he and I got together.” She takes a loud sip of her soda. “I’m fine only having him, but I also think it’s fair to live vicariously through you.”

I bit my lip, mind racing through the actual experience, then dialing in on the moment he’d kissed my forehead so gently before tucking my body into his.

“Grayson’s a good guy,” I finally manage to get out. “But not…good at sex.”

Sloane sucks in a breath through her teeth, opens her mouth like she’s going to say something else—more than likely, ask for the minute details of what helped me to form that opinion. But at that moment, Callum and Luca come charging through the back door, talking a million miles per minute. Sloane fixes me with a look that says,we will finish this conversation later.

Grayson

Backincollege,whenI first started getting anxiety attacks, Josh was the one who helped me through them. He was a history major, and not even remotely qualified, but if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was research.

Calmly, after witnessing me in the middle of one after practice one day, he said, “Do you know the difference between an anxiety attack and a panic attack, O’Connor?”

We were the only two in the gym, but it still felt weird to be talking about that stuff, so I’d just glanced back at him, leaving myself open to plausible deniability in case the other guys overheard.

“An anxiety attack builds slowly, usually accompanied by nausea and shaking. Panic attacks come out of nowhere, and often make the person experiencing them feel like they’re dying the first time it happens. Rapidly beating heart, difficulty breathing. That kind of thing.”

For the rest of the semester, Josh was like that. Never outright admitting that he knew what was going on with me, but quietly offering support. At one point, I opened my backpack to find a pamphlet for the university’s counseling services.

And so, I made an appointment. When I talked to someone about what I was feeling, I got better. By the time I graduated, the anxiety felt like something that had come and gone with my college experience.

But now it’s back.

Hands shaking, nausea rising and falling in my stomach like a sour, sticky mass, I turn the corner toward the locker room, praying nobody is around. Together, the nausea and anxiety create a closed loop. I’m anxious, and so I feel sick. I feel sick, and so my anxiety increases.

I’ve only been back in Milwaukee for three days. In that time, I’ve rushed to try and prepare my house as best I could, walking up and down the aisles in the grocery store, eyes glazing over at the options.

Living alone for so long, I had a pretty good routine down. Chipotle for lunch each day. Pad Thai on Wednesdays, pizza on Fridays, then cook up a huge batch of chili on Sundays. It’s the only thing I know how to make—if dumping can after can into the Crockpot actually counts as cooking—and it lasts me the whole week.

Plus, the smell of chili cooking on a Sunday takes me back to being a kid, watching my dad do the same thing. Mom coming home from the store, arms laden with bags. Filling the stove with jalapeño poppers and barbecue chicken bites. My family didn’t care much for hockey—my dad was a huge NFL guy. Sundays were sacred, and not because we went to church.

The anxiety is ratcheting up—I can tell from the way my thoughts are wondering, split between here and now, and the past, my childhood rushing up to meet me like the ice does when I dive to block a puck.

I’ve been on the ice all morning, trying to work through all the nervous energy inside me. Right now, I’m supposed to be getting dressed, heading to the airport, and picking up the two girls who are coming to live with me. Girls I barely know.

Girls who, just a few days ago, were told they’d be coming to live with me. The lawyer informed me that the cost of the tickets would come out of their trust funds, which would be available for school fees and other approved expenses. They’ll be flying as unaccompanied minors, on an airplane, just the two of them, chaperons from the airline guiding them and checking in.

I know nothing about taking care of kids, and the possibilities flood through my head, endless waves crashing through and pulling me under before I have a chance to resurface for air.

Distantly, I can feel the world around me, but it’s like it’s through water. The feeling of the wall against my back. The smell of the arena, the hazy, constant scent of beer and food, that clean smell of the rink. Metal on ice.

Thinking of the rink calms me for a second, until I think about skates, and how dangerous they are. People have died after being hit with a stray skate. Would it be unsafe for me to take the girls skating?

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