Page 23 of Goalie Lessons

“Well, for what it’s worth,” I offer, “I think you’re doing an excellent job.”

Silence settles again, and she looks up at the top of the tube. “Sometimes, I just wish…”

She trails off, and I study her, watching as she twirls her thumbs around, the pads gently brushing nail before circling again.

Without thinking, I say, “Callie?”

She looks up, meeting my eyes. “Yeah?”

“Everyone’s experience is different, but I want you to know that you’re not alone, okay? I was a little older than you when it happened, but I lost my mom and dad too.”

Her eyes widen, the thought just seeming to occur to her that this could be a shared experience.

Like always, when I think of my parents, a collection of images flashes through my mind—my dad and his obsession with golf. My mother’s lemon pie, her collection of Precious Moments figurines in a tall, glass case.

“How old were you?” Callie asks, drawing me from the memories.

I speak through the growing ball of tension. “Seventeen.”

Her expression shifts, and I imagine she’s thinkingThat’s so old. That’s what I would have thought at her age. Now, when I see teenagers, seventeen-year-olds, picking out their graduation dresses in shopping malls, I want to burst into fresh tears.

“Do you still miss them?” she asks, biting her bottom lip.

I laugh, but it’s a bit wet. “Every day.”

A long moment stretches between us, and I feel a bead of sweat run down my spine, gathering under my arms. Callie sucks in a breath, seems to pull herself together, roughly wiping at her eyes again and pushing herself up, her sneakers squeaking against the tube.

“It’s so hot in here,” she laughs, starting to scoot out. “Let’s go inside.”

We climb out of the tube, and the teenager comes to her side, giving her a little bottle of water and walking her into the building. Georgia hangs back, watching as I unfold myself from the tube, reverse my way down the steps, and finally come to stand next to her.

That bright smile is back on her face.

“Astrid,” she gushes, taking me by the shoulders. I get the sense that she is a very tactile person. “You are going to do great things for this place. I just know it.”

That should fill me with confidence. Instead, my eyes drift to the door, shutting behind the teen and Callie, and another emotion takes over.

Pure, unadulterated concern for that girl.

Grayson

“Comeon,O’Connor!Eyes!”

I blink and try to ignore the trickle of sweat running over my brow. The goalie coach is staring right at me, clearly pissed off, his movements jerky as he yells over the ice.

I’ve been off all day.

It started in the calisthenics room, where the trainer kept saying I was too tight. That ended with me trying to stretch harder, and getting one of those searing pains up the left side of my neck.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the sound of Athena crying last night, the way her little sniffles carried down the hall. The pain in those noises, and how I felt so helpless to do anything for her.

If I knew the girls better, I’d go to them, hug them—but I’m practically a stranger. It’s like trying to have a conversation over miles of distance, making yourself hoarse with shouting while the other person can’t hear a word you’re saying.

My thoughts drifted back and forth between thinking about the girls, and trying to focus on my performance, getting my head in the game.

During drills, I was just moving too slowly. It was like everyone else was moving at a slightly different time than me, like my fast-twitch muscle fibers were roped up, way too stiff to act the way I wanted them to.

Every shot I took was jerky, uncoordinated. My teeth even clacked together in my mouth, like the various parts of me weren’t sure how to fit together anymore.

---