Page 17 of Goalie Lessons

I’m standing in front of it, carefully flipping discs of pineapple, watching as the outside bubbles and caramelizes, little blisters of sugar forming along the flesh. It’s sweet-smelling, and it’ll be killer on the cinnamon taco shells Sloane found, paired with some vanilla ice cream and caramel drizzle.

Out by the pool, adults and kids alike run and play. High-pitched squeals and lower admonishments ring out. One kid, hilariously decked out in floaties, stares at the water, thumb in mouth, shaking his head again and again while his mom tries to tell him how much fun it’s going to be.

“So, I’d call this a success, right?”

I jump and nearly throw a piece of pineapple, throwing my hand to my heart and turning to see Sloane laughing.

“Jesusfuck, Sloane, you scared the shit out of me.”

“You were zoning out. Here, you need to stay hydrated.”

She hands me a glass of the “punch” she’s been making since we were in college, and I laugh. “You know alcohol is going to do the opposite, right?”

“But it’sorange,” she says, reaching over and clinking her glass to mine. “That means it’s refreshing and hydrating.”

I shrug and take a drink, and she’s right—it is refreshing. Ice cold and citrus-y, even if it is more than half vodka.

“So,” Sloane says, leaning in close so her words don’t carry far. “Any of the hot NHL players here catch your eye?”

It’s at that exact moment that the sliding door up on the deck opens, and Grayson steps through, two little girls walking out in front of him. They both have the timid, small-stepped nature of kids in a new place. The smaller one is glancing back at him every few steps, as though worried he’s going to disappear the moment she takes her eyes off him.

“Oh shit,” Sloane whispers, apparently not seeing the irony in the question she just asked. “I can’t believe he showed up. I was hoping he would, but figured he’d be too shy.”

I can’t answer—it’s like my mouth can’t form words right now. Together, we watch as Grayson and the girls walk down the stairs. Grayson waves to some of the players, then walks over to a sun chair with the girls.

He’s ripping the plastic from a bottle of sunscreen with his teeth, tearing the tags from two beach towels—one with Disney princesses, the other with Lightning McQueen—and laying them out over the chairs. The girls are wearing brand new swimsuits, but tugging at them uncomfortably, and Grayson rips the tags from those, too.

“Wow,” Sloane says. “They didn’t come with their swimsuits from home, I bet. That’s so sad.”

The younger girl looks like that’s exactly what she feels, while the older one is squinting around angrily in the sun, arms crossed over her chest, expression like she’d rather be anywhere else.

After a few words pass between them, he slips floaties onto the smaller girl’s arms and ushers the two of them toward the pool. Maverick’s son, Leo, comes running over, pointing to one of the towels and trying to start a conversation with the older girl, but she ignores him.

But my eyes are practically glued to Grayson, who sinks down onto the sun chair and drops his head into his hands, taking several deep breaths. From here, I can see the shake of his hands, how his left foot taps rapidly, how his entire body looks exhausted.

A second later, Maverick approaches from the side of the chair, and Grayson snaps to attention, the world’s fakest smile plastered to his face. He stands and the two start talking, but it’s obvious Grayson isn’t into it.

“He looks good,” Sloane says, and I realize she’s been eating pineapple beside me. She waves in the direction of Grayson and Maverick, at the performative happiness from Grayson I thought was obvious. “He’s smiling—that’s a good sign, right?”

I turn, gaping at her, but don’t have time to say because Callum is calling from the other side of the patio, announcing that the hamburgers are done. His grill has all the meat, mine the vegetables, fruit, and meatless alternatives.

Everyone swarms, finding paper plates and loading them up until they start to sag. Hands plunge into dripping coolers, pulling out juice boxes and sodas, and kids fight aboutnoteating potato salad,nottrying the vegetables,notliking that flavor of juice box.

Sloane and I find a seat near Luca, Callum, Maverick, and Ruby, and once again, I find myself looking back at Grayson. Watching the way he struggles with the girls, trying to get them to put something on their plates.

When the food is almost gone, I slip inside to use the bathroom. I’m just washing my hands when I hear a creak from the hallway. Intuition strikes, and I open the door with dripping hands to find Grayson on the other side, his hands on his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Oh, hey,” he rasps, dropping his hands, and I narrow my eyes at him.

“What are you doing?”

He pulls his chin back at the tone of my voice. I don’t mean for it to sound so harsh, but I’ve been watching him walk around here pretending like he’s not falling apart, and now he’s trying to do it right in front of me.

And? My inner voice asks, skeptical.Why would he act any differently around you?

It’s not like we know each other, really. But I feel this weird connection to him, and I’m clearly the only person here who can see he’s struggling, pretending to be okay when he’s not.

“What?” he finally manages to sputter, and I put my hands on my hips, forgetting too late that they’re still wet. It seeps in through my tank top, and a shiver from the air conditioning runs up my back.

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