Page 32 of Goalie Lessons

I laugh, shaking my head at the casual friendship between Sloane and her right-hand woman.

Sydney’s glossy brown hair is shorter than the last time I saw her, cut so the tips just barely brush the top of her blazer when she moves her head. It looks fantastic on her, with her obviously professionally tailored outfit and expensive shoes. Sydney has always seemed very mentally healthy to me, sure of herself, confident and balanced. The kind of woman dressed impeccably who would still snort with laughter and refer to her boss, lovingly, asThat bitch.

“I’ll tell her you’re here,” Sydney says, halting my psychoanalysis of her. She pulls back, turns and I catch her wrist.

“She working on the podcast?” I ask, and when Sydney nods, I drop her wrist and smile. “Mind if I sit in the control room?”

***

“Youbitch,” Sloane laughs, bursting into the sound room when she realizes I’ve been here for the entire show, watched the entire podcast recording process.

I spin around in my chair, grinning at her even as I start to feel dizzy. “You guys really like to throw that word around here, don’t you?”

“Did Syd call you a bitch?”

“No, but she calledyouone.”

Sloane waves, as though swatting a fly from the air. “What are you doing here?” she asks, sitting in the chair beside me, careful not to touch the control panel of knobs and dials. The woman who was in here, doing the sound tech, didn’t want to talk to me, which was fine. It was nice to sink into watching Sloane do her thing—seeing someone work who knew exactly what she wanted from her life.

I must be giving offI need to talk to youvibes, because Sloane’s eyes widen, then she stands and closes the door to the sound room, locking it dramatically.

“Sloane—” I start, laughing, but she cuts me off as she drops back into her chair, voice bordering on ecstatic as she leans forward, cheeks flushed.

“Did you and Grayson…?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows.

“What?” My voice is too shrill, I realize, and lower it, leveling my gaze at her. “No. We did not. Itoldyou about why—”

Sloane shrugs mischievously. “Maybe he’s been studying?”

“No,” I insist, wishing my cheeks weren’t betraying me like this, flaming. “This is about the deal we made.”

“Right.” Sloane draws one of her knees up and wraps her arms around it, resting her chin on it. “You get to use him like a guinea pig, and he gets a little free counseling—”

“It’snotcounseling, I’m not licensed.”

“Technicalities.” Sloane does that fly-swatting motion again. “So, what about it?”

“He’s not holding up his end of the bargain.” I cross my arms, realize that’s childish, then continue to sit like that anyway. It’s only Sloane. “I ask him questions, and it’s like…he’s not forthcoming with me. Most of the time, when I ask a question, he just asks one right back. It’s infuriating.”

Sloane chews on her lip, cutting her eyes away from mine.

“No, what?” I uncross my arms and sit up. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” she soothes, rubbing one hand up and down her shin. “It’s just that…you know how you are, Astrid. Very private. I think, for some people, that makes it difficult to really feel opened up with you.”

I knowvery privateis the nice way of saying what she’s thinking, and I let out a sigh, running my finger along the chair’s armrest.

“Well, I think this angle, of the elite athlete’s mental health and coping strategies, might be what gets me a spot at a research place. From there, I can secure funding myself. But Ineedthis. I just don’t know how to get him to open up to me.”

Sloane shrugs, looks up to the ceiling, then asks, thoughtfully, “Do you know how I got you to open up to me, Astrid?”

“Sheer determination,” I deadpan. “Consistent, sustained effort.”

“You’re saying I wore you down,” she laughs, wagging her finger. “But it was morestrategicthan that. Remember where I always talked to you?”

My brow furrows for a second. Then, I do remember. Catching me just after her hockey practice, and before I started my figure skating training. Asking me to teach her some low-level tricks, some spins and poses. Teasing me and giving me her stick, telling me to practice my shots. And, for some reason, swept up along in her charm, I did.

“On the ice,” I finally say, meeting her eyes, realizing the only reason I felt comfortable talking to her is because I was so comfortable out there.

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