Page 35 of Goalie Lessons

“Why do you think that is?” she asks.

I know the answer to this—I’ve thought about it a lot. “I think each sport has its own special flavor, and there’s this sort of…rowdy element to hockey that I like. Fast-paced like basketball, but a little rougher around the edges, like football. And I like that it involves everything, the complicated footwork from learning to skate, handling the puck, all that hand-eye coordination and physicality coming together. Plus, the fights can be fun.”

Astrid lets out a surprised, but happy noise. “That’s such an…eloquent answer.”

“Figured someone might ask it for my biography someday.”

“Oh?” She stands up straighter, stick in her hand, eyeing me. My eyes are trained on the puck she was about to hit, body squared to it. Shit, if my goalie coach could see me now, maybe he’d be a little less pissed off.

Or, maybe, he would point out the fact that I’m blocking shots from someone who learned to hit just five minutes ago, and it’s actually not that impressive at all.

“So, you want to be big-time famous, then?” Astrid asks, then immediately rockets the puck at me.

It’s faster, harder, with more precision. Still easy to block, but I’m impressed with how quickly she’s picked up aim and power.

“Well, yeah,” I laugh, feeling that familiar cold sweat from being on the ice and being bundled up in all this gear. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“No,” she says, doing a little spin before she hits the next puck. “I just did skating to get me through college. I was there on a scholarship.”

“So, you don’t skate in your free time anymore?”

“I’ll go every few weeks.” She flicks another puck in my direction, almost like she’s trying to catch me off guard. “But mostly to move my body. It’s good for flexibility, balance, that sort of thing. It’s never really been this…passionfor me, though.”

“That’s the psychological stuff.” It’s hard for me to imagine someone not having a passion. Hockey has been mine since I announced to my family that I was dropping the other sports in my junior year of high school. They didn’t care that much, but my dad couldn’t hide his disappointment he wouldn’t see me as middle linebacker for the high school football team. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was probably for the best—I’d already had my fair share of exposure to CTE in the time that I’d been playing. My sophomore year, our quarterback was airlifted with a brain bleed and told that he shouldn’t be on the field again after that.

Not that hockey is much better when it comes to that stuff, but as goalie, I’m just not smashing my head against other guys as much.

“Yeah,” Astrid says, skating backward, her knees bent. When she hits the last puck, it nearly catches me off guard, and she notices, our eyes locking. “Keep your eye on the prize, O’Connor.”

I feel a flicker of restraint, and it vanishes, so I say it anyway. “I am.”

“Oh.” She looks away, and I watch color move into her cheeks as she lets out a little laugh, skating backwards, away from me.

“Astrid—”

I skate after her, feeling like a bumbling fool next to the way she so smoothly moves across the ice. I reach the door just before her, and she stops, tipping her head up to meet my eyes.

“Great session,” she says, eyes sparking. “But I have to—”

“Please.” It comes out a whisper. “Please, Astrid. Just tell me what went wrong between us. What I did that night to make you run off like that. I swear I have no idea and I just want—”

She lifts her hands, like she might run them through her hair, but is stopped when she realizes she has it in a ponytail. Dropping them, she worries them along the hem of her shirt, then says, “It’s not that simple, Grayson…”

“Please. Tell me now, and I will never bring it up again. I promise.”

Astrid looks to the ceiling, as if the answer might be written up there, and I resist the urge to look up, too. Finally, after what feels like forever—and after I’ve convinced myself that she’s going to run off to the other exit to get away from me—she meets my eye.

“I’ll tell you,” she says, voice sounding slightly choked, “but I think it’s going to hurt your feelings.”

I bite my tongue, chest tight. My first thought is that I was too small—but Iknowthat’s not true. Statistically, I’m much bigger than average.

My mind runs through the possibilities—she got food poisoning? Fell in love with someone else? Hated the smell of my cologne? Is a lesbian?

When she finally says it, it takes my brain a moment to digest the words fully.

“The sex just…wasn’t for me.” She does the skating equivalent of shifting her weight from foot-to-foot, putting a little distance between the two of us.

“The sex wasn’t for you?” I repeat, dumbly.

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