Page 33 of Goalie Lessons

Sloane’s eyes glint. “Yup. On the ice. And I’m willing to bet that’s where Grayson is most at ease, too.”

I stand, bite my tongue to keep from saying something corny, like,You’re a genius.

“Just compliment me,” Sloane teases, spinning around in her chair again. “It’s not going to hurt nearly as much as you think it will.”

“Oh, you’re such abitch.”

Grayson

Incollege,Ihada crush on a redhead in my economics class named Jessie. She was a business major, had a loud laugh, and was always asking me for notes after class, complimenting my handwriting and calling me a “lifesaver.”

I had this bright idea to take Jessie to the campus ice rink for our first date, after it took me weeks of waffling to finally drum up the courage and ask her out. It turned out to be an idea that actually worked for me—teaching her how to skate involved a lot of her hanging off of me, grabbing at my sweatshirt, laughing, and my hands on her waist.

Jessie and I dated for the better part of a year. Then, she got a scholarship to go abroad and study in France. That night, at our celebratory dinner, she said it was probably best if we shifted our relationship into friendship territory, since she really wanted to focus on her experience over there, and was worried managing me might take away from that.

Obviously, it had stung, but I was happy for her. And I understood—there had always been something about Jessie and me that didn’t feel permanent. Like we were both just doing the best with what we had, while we had it.

Now, I watch, mesmerized, as Astrid curls her way around the rink, skating fast and gracefully, her body coordinated with every turn—every shift of weight.

The “teach her to skate” method would not work with her.

Though she’s just in black leggings and a long-sleeved black top, I can picture her in a sparkling outfit as she skates backward, jumps and twirls, arms up in the air as though for balance, but also as a sort of art. Graceful, intentional.

She spins again, lifting one leg off the ground, chest moving toward the ice, posture impeccable. Beautiful. And when she comes to a tight stop, her arms in the air, for her final pose, her eyes connect with mine. Her chest is hardly moving, like the whole thing took little effort from her at all.

“Well, this is a treat,” I say, once we’ve skated close enough to each other. “When you said to meet you at the rink…”

“You’re early,” she breathes, and I wonder if the blush on her cheeks is from the cold, the exertion, or from realizing I watched her entire routine.

“It’s called being punctual, Astrid,” I toss back, still mesmerized by the way she moves on the ice. Really, I should have guessed figure skating from her posture, the way she moves. The grace with which she conducts herself always. I just can’t believe it’s never come up—that we’re both equally committed to the ice. Both are in love with it, just in different ways.

“Alright, Mr. Punctual,” she says, and I notice there is already a line of pucks along the goal crease. “I want you to practice with this—Sloane said you’d know what to do,” she raises her hand, gestures at the circles. “Skate around these, then shoot.”

Laughing, I come to a stop in front of her, staring her down. Normally, I don’t notice the height difference between us, but it feels exaggerated on the ice. Like I actually feel as tall as I am.

“Astrid,” I laugh. “I’m a goalie, you know that, right? I don’t really do these kinds of drills.”

She lets out an impatient huff, glancing at the pucks angrily like it’s their fault. “So, what kind of drills do you do, then?”

I blink at her, desperately trying to keep the corners of my lips from turning up. “You know. Blocking goals?”

“Well, there’s nobody here to shoot them, so—”

Astrid cuts off, already shaking her head, clearly recognizing the look on my face and wanting nothing to do with it. “Absolutely not, O’Connor, I amnota hockey player.”

“Really? After all this time being friends with Sloane, you don’t even know how to hit a puck?”

“No—and Sloane doesn’t know how to do a triple Axel, either,” she scoffs. “I made it perfectly clear to her that I had no interest in hockey when we met.”

“And yet.” I throw my arms out, gesturing to the rink, to the practice arena around us. “Here you are. Come on, Astrid, are you saying you can’t hit a few pucks in my direction?”

She chews on her lip, her eyes darting toward the goal, and for the first time, I realize I might know what she’s thinking. That I’m starting to know her well enough to figure out what’s going on inside her head. “I don’t even have a stick,” she argues, and I’m to the boards and back in less than ten seconds, holding out a stick that is—admittedly—far too big for her.

“Fine.” She takes the stick gingerly, like it might be covered in some sort of hockey cooties. Then, she pivots, turns toward the pucks, her gaze cast down. “But don’t expect it to be any good.”

“Now, come on.” A laugh ripples under my words, joy exploding in my chest. This is better than I could have ever asked for, and I can’t deny the hot, liquid sense of want sloshing around in my chest. Iwantto see Astrid hit a puck. In fact, right now it’s a sudden, compulsive need. “I’ll teach you how to do it.”

Knowing Astrid, I think, at first, that she’s going to refuse. Then she sighs, glances at me, jerks her head like,Get on with it, then.

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