Page 78 of Goalie Lessons

“No.” I shake my head, wondering what Astrid would say if she saw his old, beat-up truck. I wonder what she would say if she knew that I used to spend my Sundays with him, prowling the curbs and looking for appliances that might have what we were hunting for. He did a lot of scrap metal work, but copper was the main draw.

So, I tell her about it.

I tell her about what it was like to grow up that far outside of town. I tell her about the time we saw a tornado rip through the neighbor’s fields, cutting straight across the horizon and never once turning toward us. And I tell her about the odd jobs my mom would take on when she wanted something new from the shopping network—washing and folding laundry, doing custodial work at the school.

Astrid listens, only pausing when the server drops off our food, sliding my extra plate of chili fries over to me with the vindictive push of a man who never wants to see a sopping paper tray again.

“Anything else?” he asks, and when we wave him off, Astrid says, “You were talking about the kittens.”

I finish telling her about the kittens born under our porch, and how I’d made sure each of them found a home in town. The veterinarian told me that if I decided to give up on hockey, that might be a good calling for me.

Astrid laughs, brings her hand to her mouth, shakes her head.

Then our food is gone, and all I can think about is the fact that we’re getting on separate planes tomorrow. She’ll head back to Milwaukee, and I’ll fly out to the West Coast for yet another away game.

“Hey,” I say, trying to be as casual as she was earlier, stepping out of the bathroom in that hotel room. “What if you came with me to California tomorrow? Show me the sights?”

“Sure.” Astrid shrugs, flicking her eyes up at me while wiping each of her fingers with a napkin, then crumpling it and throwing it into the little plastic basket. “Why not?”

Suddenly, in the middle of this burger restaurant, it hits me with a sudden, total clarity: I am falling in love with Astrid Foster.

Astrid

Californiais,asalways,bright and sunny.

When the warm sunshine hits my face, I feel an instant and whole sense of ease. I’m back home, returning to the place where I was born and raised. At the airport, Grayson has to leave straight away, going right to the arena, but I have some time on my hands.

I take an Uber over to Santa Monica, and as I look out the window, the sense of ease starts to dissipate.

Something I hadn’t realized, while being in Milwaukee, is the lack of constant reminders. My mother’s favorite restaurant, favorite beach spot, the little cart on the corner that sells the best hot dogs.

Even worse are the pieces of them missing now.

The hardware store my dad used to go to—even though it wasn’t the closest to us by a long shot—now gutted, with a sign out front advertising a chain cookie place. The crooked stoplight that’s finally been fixed. He’d joke about it each time we stopped there, and I can only wonder what he’d say now.

“Joke’s up,” he might have sighed, throwing his hands in the air. “Why does this city have torepairthings?”

But Dad’s not here, no matter how much I expect him to come walking around the corner. No matter how often I expect my mother to call me, chew me out for taking so long to call and update her.

When we get to the beach, I thank the driver and step out of the car, wishing I’d had time to prepare for being back. It’s warm, and all I have are sweaters and pants.

I head to a little hole in the wall and order Mom’s favorite strawberry pomegranate smoothie, then I take it, and a muffin, out onto the beach. It would be nice to have a suit, but I make do, rolling my jeans up to my knees, dangling my shoes in my fingers, and wading out into the water.

Grayson hadn’t asked me to go to the game tonight. In fact, he’d specifically not mentioned it. If I didn’t PDA while we were out, I definitely don’t want to show up to the game tonight. It would be like waving a banner telling everyone that we’re more than friends.

Sloane didn’t invite me this time. She thinks I’m back in Wisconsin now. If I show up, it might mean something to the people there. That I’m Milwaukee Frost obsessed.

Or, more accurately, that I’m obsessed with one particular member of the team.

I get back to the beach and start to pace, looking for shells, my vision blurring with the running of the sand, mind searching for excuses.

And I find them—I’m there to work on my case study. I’mfromhere, and lived here up until very recently, so I could very easily be back in town for work, or to see an old friend. None of the excuses really add up.

And still, I turn and call an Uber to the L.A. Kings arena.

***

I’d managed to convince myself I’d be able to sneak in to see Grayson play without Sloane finding out about it at all. I’d even taken special care to text her about my phone “acting up” so I could turn the location off while still in Minneapolis.

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