Page 28 of Goalie Lessons

That is, until I’m leaving the center, walking to my car, and hear the low tenor of his voice. I look up to realize he’s parked right next to me, in the middle of lifting Athena into his car.

“Astrid—” Grayson catches my gaze “—hold on a second.”

I stand outside my car, sweating, watching as he carefully closes the door on Athena and tells the girls it’s only going to be a moment. Even from here, I can feel Callie’s disdain at being left in the car.

“Hey,” he says, and the way he leans against his car takes the breath from my lungs. Casual yet genuine, his voice like he’s just been waiting to see me again.

“Hey,” I return, raising my eyebrows, gesturing toward my car, then feeling awkward about doing that. “What’s up?”

“So…” He pauses, looks up to the sky, then meets my eye. “I—I tried to talk to Callie about her seeing someone. A professional. And she’s insisted that she only wants to talk to you.”

“Grayson,” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m not licensed—”

“Then we don’t do it in any sort of professional capacity.” He takes a step towards me, and his voice is practically pleading. It does something strange to my belly, making it turn slowly, butterflies rising. “I just—she needs to talk to someone. Even if it’s just, like, a trusted adult, you know?”

“A trusted adult,” I repeat, and he winces, which makes me laugh.

“I don’t know what I’m saying.” He looks out over the lot, then back to me. “Callie needs someone to listen to her right now, and for some reason, you’re the only one she wants to talk to. I can pay you—”

I hold my hand up, about to tell him that him paying me is, first, unnecessary, and second, would negate the wholenot in a professional capacitything. I’m about to tell him that the whole thing is so far-fetched, that I don’t have time for chats with a thirteen-year-old—but then something occurs to me.

And Grayson must realize I’m thinking, because he takes a tiny step back, sweeping his eyes up and down the length of me, considering.

“What?” he asks, brow furrowing. “What are you thinking?”

I’m thinking that, to get a spot at a research facility, I’m going to need a case study thatwows. I’m thinking that studying alternative methods of treatment in regular people doesn’t pop, but with a professional athlete?

Ideas are already running through my head—how professional sports affect mental health in elite athletes. The actual biochemistry and neurochemistry of the processes. There are so many opportunities there, and including a big name—or medium name—like Grayson O’Connor might just be what helps me over the edge.

“I can see that you’re thinking about something,” Grayson hedges. “Mind telling me what it is so I can nudge you in the right direction?”

“I’m thinking…” I say slowly, taking another step toward him, suddenly feeling very hungry. “That I might agree to this, if you can do something for me.”

His eyes darken, gaze flicking down to my lips for the briefest moment. I watch the way his throat bobs as he swallows. Then, finally, after forever, he says, “Anything.”

Grayson

Mystomachisstillturning with embarrassment.

Why would I think she meantsex? Of course that’s ridiculous. It wouldn’t make any sense. Why run off at the wedding, only to barter sex in exchange for her services?

But I couldn’t stop those thoughts from flooding into my head. Couldn’t stop thinking that I would genuinely doanythingshe wanted. I’d get on my knees every night for Astrid, even without the incentive.

“Are you ready?”

Now, I snap out of my thoughts, raising my head to meet her gaze at the sound of her muffled voice.

I’ve been waiting for her in my car, the engine idling, the headlights pooling into the bushes out beyond the parking lot. A rabbit flits through the light, dashing into the grass, from the cover of one bush to another. The sweet early morning air is filtering in where I cracked open the sunroof, but it’s not doing anything to curb the edge of exhaustion around my eyes and mouth.

Astrid taps on the window and points up the hill, making a circular motion with her fingers, gesturing for me to hurry.

She’s wearing a pair of dark blue leggings, hiking boots, and a rain jacket, her thumbs looped into the straps of what looks like one of those backpacks you fill with water, the little tube dangling just over her left shoulder.

This morning, she looks like an REI model, like she might snap a photo for Instagram and get a million likes. Like she’s going to link to the leggings that can make your ass look amazing, then start a viral trend.

“As I’ll ever be,” I say, stepping out of the car and falling into step behind her.

In the parking lot outside the center, nearly a week ago, Astrid hadn’t seemed to register what it was that I was thinking about. Instead, she launched into what our agreement might look like—her agreeing to chat with Callie twice a week, starting next week, with the understanding that it’s not in any sort of professional capacity, that she can’t prescribe medications and that I’m not going to pay her.

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