Page 19 of Goalie Lessons

I stare at her, then out the windshield, mind racing, trying to figure out what to say. I feel like I’m in a game show, and trying to guess my answer to win a prize. Only I don’t know any of the topics, and the clock I’m looking at isn’t counting down in a straight line, but randomly jumping around, eventually landing on zero when I think I still have time.

“I could…” I clear my throat. “I could see if he wants to hang out—”

“No.” The word is sharp, a snap of a syllable, but says far more than the single word. It saysAbsolutely not, why would you think I would want that?andWhat a stupid thing to sayandThis conversation is over.

Sighing, I watch as she repositions her body so she’s facing the window, looking fully out at the city as we pass it by. Basically, the physical embodiment of a cold shoulder.

With Calliope ignoring me and Athena starting to snore gently, my mind turns back to the only other thing taking up space in my head right now.

Astrid.

Specifically, the look on her face when she turned and practically fled the scene outside the bathroom, taking the stairs so fast I thought for a second that she might lose her footing and tumble all the way down.

She was lying, of course—I’m not sure anyone who’s saidIt’s not you, it’s mein the history of time has actually been telling the truth. Does anyone actually think it’s them? Of course whatever turned her away that night was me, but I just can’t figure out what it was.

All the stolen glances, the staring, the dancing together, and how my hand had slipped down to the small of her back. How she’d shivered in my arms, looking up at me with glassy eyes, wide pupils.

It was like I was a different person. Being around her made me that way, made me feel like anything was possible. So I’d gone along with that feeling.

The first time I questioned if the whole thing was one-sided was when she appeared at the end of the hallway, reaching into her pocket for her room key. In that moment, I had a flash of worry that I might just be an unwanted presence, a creepy man recalling her room and waiting for her just outside it.

Then she looked up at me, and I saw the expression that passed over her face.

Surprised.

A pleasant surprise.

And then we were in her room, and I was taking her clothes off, and the sex was great. After, I’d settled back into the pillows and she’d settled in beside me, nuzzling her head into the crook of my arm.

It felt right.

But the next morning, when I woke up, I was in her room, alone. Not only had she left the room, but she’d left the estate, left thecountrywithout even so much as a goodbye kiss. No number, no indication that she wanted to hear from me again.

After that, I hovered somewhere between confidence that I’d had a one-night stand with a woman likethat, and insecurity about the reason she hadn’t stuck around. Apparently, that mix was the perfect juice for my game.

I run through the night again, examining each moment, turning it over, trying to figure it out, until we’re pulling into my driveway, and Calliope is unbuckling her seat belt the moment the car comes to a stop.

Rather than going straight inside, she puts a hand on her sister.

“Thena,” she says, voice surprisingly gentle for a girl so angry. “Wake up.”

Athena stirs and lets out a little sound that makes my chest loosen. Even amidst all the anxiety, there have been small moments like this. Watching the girls and feeling something—is it paternal?—about them.

The girls are out of the car, and we’re walking inside, and I barely have time to try and talk them into a snack before Calliope is ushering them back into their shared bedroom and shutting the door for the night.

I sigh, take a deep breath, and settle in on the couch. With her closing the door like that—her general dissatisfaction with this situation—I haven’t felt right sleeping in my bedroom up the hall. Like I need to keep watch over them, position myself between those girls and the front door.

An hour later, after tossing and turning, I’m drifting off, my dreams immediately filling with the sight of Astrid in her dress, smiling at me and pulling me into her room.

***

“Come on, O’Connor, you’ve got it!”

We’re split up doing skill drills, and sweat runs down the side of my face, over my cheek, and into the collar of my undershirt. We’re running a fairly standard drill—two guys to my ten and two—Tyler Chen and Marcus Johnson—pucks lined up in front of them, hammering them at me as I try and block them. Sometimes they’ll pass to one another first.

And normally, this drill is nothing for me. Butterfly down, drop the knee, block the shot. Gloves out, puck down.

But right now, each shot is like a fly zipping past me. Impossibly small and fast, and I’m supposed to catch it in my metaphorical chopsticks. They shoot, I block one, miss two. Chen and Johnson exchange worried glances, and my goalie coach skates over, adjusting my stick, shouting to be heard over the sound of the other drills going on around the ice.

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