Page 57 of Goalie Lessons

Hopefully that means I’ll play a good game tonight. Hopefully that means Luca isn’t already talking to Coach, to the administration, trying to figure out if Martinez should start for me instead, if they should find a new goalie for the Frost altogether.

I work my way through the drills, and Maverick swings around, taking a shot on the goal. I block it, watch as he circles, his head tipping up, finding the glass box up high, where VIP ticket holders sit.

Ruby is right at the glass, her hand raised, Leo beside her, jumping up and down. Maverick raises a hand to them, and Leo waves his arms around, his mouth open but the sound of his shout not making it to us. Others in the box look at him, laugh.

Maverick skates away doing stick work, but my mind is stuck on the moment. Him looking up, them looking down. Someone there to cheer him on, excited enough to jump and cheer. To point down at the ice and call out his number.

A whistle blows, and the refs take the ice. I snap out of my thoughts, trying to get my head on straight. The thought pops into my head, fully formed, of Astrid in that hotel room, the feeling of her skin under my fingertips. Then, I think about what she said.

I suck in a deep breath and drop myself back onto one of those trails, the fresh air in my lungs, Astrid just in front of me, turning, smiling, pointing to a woodpecker high up in a tree.

My happy place.

Something clicks into place for me, a total, certain sense of calm.

When I open my eyes, the ref drops the puck. We win the opening face-off, taking control and attacking Anaheim’s goal. The sounds of hockey ring out through the space—the smack of sticks and theclackof the puck. The sharp, crisp sound of blades over the ice.

I ready up when the flow changes and Anaheim comes barreling back toward me.

The Frost’s regular season has begun.

Astrid

Today’smeetingwithGraysonis about my case study.

It’s professional, scientific. Only to do with gathering information on him. It’s in no way going to be another meeting like the one we had in the hotel. I’m not even going to let myselflookat his lips.

But I can’t lie to myself—I’m not interested in the case study right now.

Once again, I’m waiting for Grayson to show up, but this time I’m not sitting on a hotel bed. I’m in the gravel car lot of another park, staring out the windshield, the gentle steam from my coffee cup twisting through the cab and filling the space with a warm, comforting scent.

There’s a large, grassy clearing in front of me, with bathrooms, a water pump and drinking fountain, a pavilion, and a swing set. All around it, trees push up against the grass, and little brown signs mark the entrance to various trails.

The park is empty this early in the morning, with nobody but a stray man on the other side of the large clearing, staring sleepily down at his dog, who appears to refuse a game of fetch.

As I stare into the grass, noting the slight frost over the blades, I think about Grayson.

Even after touching myself in that hotel room, I couldn’t get the idea of him out of my head. I couldn’t stop feeling his hands on my body, thinking about his breathy, kissed-out voice. Every night since our make-out session, I’ve dreamed about Grayson O’Connor.

Sometimes, we’re just hiking together, but most of the time, it’s a replay of that night after the wedding. A replay of it, with a few tweaks. The Grayson of now superimposed over that night’s Grayson.

A steady patience. A teasing, careful energy.

Situations that have me waking up in the middle of the night, moaning softly into my pillow. I only pray that the guest room is far enough from Callum and Sloane, that they won’t be able to hear my humiliating, illicit dream sounds.

When Grayson comes, rumbling into the parking lot, it jolts me out of my thoughts and sends a stupid flush over my cheeks. Since starting this whole thing with him, it’s like my face has a new pink default.

I think about last night, the hours I spent sitting on the couch in Callum and Sloane’s living room, knees tucked under my chin, watching him play against the Anaheim Ducks. Unlike the pre-season games, he wasn’t pulled.

It’s not like I had a full understanding of his performance. But he stayed on the ice the whole time, blocked most of the shots the other team took, and even made a really cool save that looked like it was going in. Every time the camera swung around, focusing in on his face, I’d quickly grabbed my water bottle, trying to keep myself from fixating on him.

A lost cause. I was already spending my Friday night at home, watching hockey on the TV—something I had never in my life done before. Not even for Sloane.

Now, I grab my coffee, open the door, and pull the blanket from the back seat, watching as Grayson’s eyebrow shoots up at the sight of me. Something like adoration rises to my throat at the sight of him—slightly rumpled, sleepy, wearing another pair of tapered gray sweatpants, a baby blue Frost hoodie, and a dark charcoal denim coat.

“Aren’t you cold?”

His voice absolutely should not send a burst of heat through me the way it does. Neither should his messy hair, the way he leans toward me, the hang of his sweats over his legs.

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