Page 42 of Goalie Lessons

“Yeah, go ahead,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll Venmo you later. Text me if I forget, okay?”

I don’t know what Callie is doing in the bathroom, but I can’t waste time thinking about it. Astrid’s warning about paying close attention to her comes to mind, and panic streaks through me.

What would I do if Callie was in there, harming herself?

When I get to the top of the stairs, I have my phone out, dialing the number of the only person Callie might talk to right now.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” I croak. “Sorry to bother you. It’s Callie—”

Astrid doesn’t hesitate, and I hear shifting on the other end of the line. “I’m grabbing my keys—text me the address.”

Astrid

Graysontextsmehishome address as I’m pulling out of Sloane and Callum’s driveway. Sitting in the road, my foot on the brake, I hit the link with shaking fingers, prompting my navigation to show me the way. It takes me down to the end of the street and instructs me to turn left toward the highway.

I try to focus on driving, but I can only think about that girl. I’dtoldGrayson to keep an eye on her—she should be seeing a real psychiatrist. In fact, both girls probably need a whole team of specialists at this point to avoid future damage.

Seven minutes later, I’m turning down Grayson’s road, surprised to find that the houses aren’t quite as big, and not as nice as Sloane and Callum’s place. No pools in the backyard, more average-American-home than obvious wealthy-hockey-player’s-place.

I pull into the driveway, my headlights illuminating the numbers on the side of the garage, just beside the door. When Grayson called, I was about to tuck myself into bed, so my face is covered with pimple patches, my hair twisted up on top of my head.

There’s nothing I can do about it now. I didn’t even stop to put on a bra.

I hurry up the sidewalk, knock on the door, then find it unlocked and open it before he can even get to me.

“Grayson?”

“Up here!”

There’s a low, mangled scream—the sound of a teenage girl’s wrath, and I hurry up the stairs. The house is beautiful on the inside, simple, with the kind of staircase that folds, so I have to turn on a second landing as I run up the steps.

When I get to the hallway, I find them—Grayson kneeling on the floor in the hallway, his hand on the bathroom door. The light shines out from under it, washing out onto the carpet. He turns and looks at me, a sense of relief flushing over his features.

I want to tell him not to feel relieved just yet. I—also—have no idea what the hell I’m doing. Approaching the door slowly, I gesture to Grayson, pointing inside. He nods, face white with a low-grade panic.

“Callie?”

There’s a pause, then she answers. “Who is it?”

“It’s Astrid.”

This pause is longer, then she says, “What…what are you doing here?”

“I heard you’re having a hard time right now,” I say. “I was hoping you’d be willing to talk to me.”

“Ishestill out there?” she practically growls, and Grayson jerks, pulling his hand back from the door like it’s burned him.

“He’s leaving,” I say, holding his gaze. I can see it there—his feelings are hurt. He hasn’t done anything—nothing besides agreeing to take the girls in. But Callie is too young to reason with that. When she lashes out, it has to go somewhere. “Callie…are you okay? Are you hurting yourself?”

“No. I’m not.” The answer is immediate, matter of fact, her voice level. “I don’t…I don’t want to talk about it while he’s here.”

I glance at Grayson, and he holds his phone up in a shaking hand, where 9-1-1 is dialed on the screen. I stare at it, thinking, then mouth,Let me try, then we can call.

Surprising myself, I reach out and put a hand on his forearm, squeezing. He stares at my hand, and I watch him swallow, the movement of his throat before he glances back at me.

Callie’s voice breaks the moment. “Is he leaving?”

---