Page 27 of Goalie Lessons

“Geez, Sloane, now who’s the one over-analyzing?”

She rolls her eyes and tosses a balled-up napkin at me. I grab it, standing to throw it in the trash, when my phone buzzes. One glance tells me it’s a Milwaukee number—maybe a follow-up from one of the research centers?

“Well?” Sloane asks, bouncing from foot to foot, her eyes wide, excited. Knowing her, she’s already fantasizing about my move to Milwaukee, how we’ll go to the pumpkin patch together, and spend the holidays skiing.

But I’m already thinking about what it will be like to have my dream job—working in a research center, designing studies, conducting trials. Figuring out how the human brain works in real time, pushing forward with what we can discover about how we think.

Waving her away, I grab the phone, move into the guest room, and answer breathlessly.

“Hello, Dr. Astrid Foster speaking.”

***

I’m still mulling over the conversation with the research center, completely absorbed in my own head, that when Georgia pops up in front of me just inside the door, I actually jump and drop my keys to the floor.

“Sorry!” she chirps, laughing as she bends to pick them up. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You look like you have something on your mind!”

“Oh,” I laugh—she only has me here through the summer, but it still feels rude to talk about a different job you want at your current one.

Besides, who even knows if I’m going to get a research position? The lab manager who called me last night was excited about my resume, excited about my experience, excited about everythingexceptmy proposed studies, and the case study I submitted.

“You know how it is now,” she’d said, voice carefully professional, HR-trained. “We need research that the public willunderstand. That they’ll be interested in.”

Now, I realize Georgia is still talking, “…and you’re the only one.”

Blinking, I reach backwards in my mind, hoping it’s recorded some of what she’s said for me to recall. Unfortunately, my mind is blank.

“Okay,” I try, because I don’t want to admit I zoned out and wasn’t listening to a word she said just now.

“Excellent!” She claps her hands, and the keys on her key ring all jangle. “You head to your office, and I’ll send her in.”

At this point, I realize I should get some clarification, but it’s too late—Georgia is already walking away, calling out little greetings to the kids and other staff in the lobby. I sigh and follow her path, hooking a right to go to the elevator so I can avoid following her up the stairs.

Does she want me to collaborate with someone else on the planning? Or show what I have so far? My progress was pretty slowed down by my little playground session with Callie last week.

I’ve barely been in my office for five minutes and am just plugging my laptop into the charger when there’s a polite little knock on my door. Georgia stands there with Callie, looking in.

“Here we go!” she says, giving Callie an encouraging pat and waving to me.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m flailing, and I stand. “Georgia, wait—”

Callie stands completely still, her eyes locked on me. Though her arms are hanging at her sides, I can picture her so easily with them crossed, a scowl permanently in place on her lips.

Georgia turns around, raising her eyebrows at me. “What’s up?”

“I’m not—I’m not licensed to do counseling.” I gesture vaguely in Callie’s direction. “Is that—?”

“Oh,” Georgia’s brows draw together. “That’s right. Well, Callie, we do have a counselor, Mr. Jones—”

“No,” Callie shakes her head, taking a step back. “No.”

“Now, come on—” Georgia starts, but Callie is already turned, walking back down the hallway. Georgia glances back at me quickly, “Sorry, hun. I forgot you aren’t licensed.”

With that, she turns and follows Callie.

I slump back into my chair, mind whirring. Grayson has to find a better solution for her, needs to find another—anactual—professional that she feels comfortable talking to.

For the next four hours, I sink into my work, outlining educational materials and keeping my mind off everything. I don’t think about the research center. I don’t think about Callie. And I don’t think about Grayson.

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