Page 8 of Goalie Lessons

The lawyer offices here are stuffy, smelling like old carpet the way a historical building does. As I walk through the hallways, my mind races, trying to imagine what possible reason there might be for me to be here now.

Six months ago, my best friend from college died in a plane crash coming home from a vacation. Josh was electric—fun to be around. We played together in college and were later in the same hockey house. We stayed close for months after graduation, but drifted apart the way you have to when you’re located in different places.

Joshcouldhave gone into the NHL, like me, but he’d always made it clear that he was there for the full ride scholarship, then he was out. One year after graduation, he was engaged, and a year after that, I was back in Colorado for his wedding.

And here I am once more, knocking on the door of a lawyer’s office in downtown Denver, hoping I don’t look as sick as I feel.

“Mr. O’Connor,” the lawyer says, standing and smoothing her suit when I walk in. She’s young—at least, younger than I was expecting—with shoulder-length, chocolate brown hair and sharp, dark eyes. “I’m Ms. Jade Clearing, family attorney for the Welches. It’s nice to meet you, and thank you for coming all this way.”

She extends her hand to me, and I take it, hoping she doesn’t feel the slight trembling of my fingers. “Of course,” I say, giving it one firm shake, then dropping it, knowing I’m focusing a little too much on the mechanics of the movement to be natural. “Anything for Josh.”

To the right of her desk is an elderly woman in a wheelchair, sitting in a blouse with a little quilt over her legs. She’s at the age where her back has started to curve permanently, her hair a stark white in curls over her head. I cross the room to shake her hand too, and realize she smells like rosewater.

Cupping her other hand over mine, the woman holds me there for a moment, eyes tearing as she peers up at me, her voice a bit thin and high in that watery way of age as she says, “Josh always said you were one of the good ones.”

That statement shoots right to my core, and I can almost imagine him saying it, laughing, ruffling his curly copper hair. This must be his grandma. Josh told his grandmother that I was “one of the good ones.” It’s affirming, but turns up the dial on my grief, and I have to swallow through the newly forming lump in my throat as I give her hand a gentle shake, smiling down at her.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, then I release her hand and turn so I’m facing both her and Jade Clearing. “So, what’s going on?”

“Thank you for coming in today, Mr. O’Connor, we know you have a busy schedule and Mrs. Welch here, for one, is very grateful that you’ve agreed to meet with us on such short notice.”

I try to wedge myself into the chair. The lawyer looks apologetic that her chairs aren’t hockey-player-sized.

“As you know, Joshua Welch passed away six months ago, along with his wife and parents, in a tragic plane accident. Members of the family not on vacation include Joshua’s two children, Athena and Calliope, as well as his sister, Kayla, and Mrs. Welch here—Joshua’s great-grandmother.”

“I believe we met at the funeral,” Mrs. Welch says, her voice thin and high, and I nod, not wholly remembering her, but knowing there was an older woman at the front of the room, and I paid my respects to her.

“We did.” I shift in my chair, growing more uncomfortable. “So, what does that have to do with me?”

“Well.” Ms. Clearing moves some files around, clears her throat, and stares me down. “Originally, after the deaths, custody of Athena and Calliope was assigned to Kayla, Joshua’s sister—their aunt. But, due to an unfortunate series of events, the children can no longer remain with her.”

Mrs. Welch says, angrily, “Kayla just couldn’t keep her nose clean.”

“Kayla has been arrested for the possession of illegal substances,” Ms. Clearing sighs. “It wasn’t enough for intent to sell, but the charges mean she’s no longer fit to be the caregiver for those girls.”

My heart has started to pound, my palms slick with sweat. What could they possibly need from me? Money? No—Joshua’s wife was a big-time lawyer herself. No way they didn’t leave something behind for their girls.

“Mr. O’Connor, it’s my understanding that you’re the godfather for Joshua’s eldest?”

I blink, and it comes rushing back to me—a phone call from Josh after Calliope was born. He’d said I was so far down the line it would probably never come to that, but he trusted me, and wanted to put me down. Just in case.

“I—yes. I remember that.”

“You’re still listed in their will. After following the family members down—grandparents, Kayla—it’s you. My question is, are you still willing to take these girls in?”

My hand rises on its own, starting to rub circles against my chest. Nausea bubbles in my stomach, and I try to ignore it, try to stay present in this moment.

Are you willing to take these girls in?

After his wedding, I’d seen Josh and his family maybe once a year. Memories flash through my mind of holding Calliope as a baby, calling to congratulate him on his second daughter. Brief phone calls, him talking about spit-up.

The last time we spoke, he told me he had just earned tenure at his university, where he taught history. The grief of losing him crashes over me again, but I can’t think about that—I need to think about the girls.

About if it’s even possible for me to help them.

“Grayson, right?”

I blink, looking up to see Mrs. Welch looking at me. For an older woman—she must be at least ninety—the look in her eyes in surprisingly fierce. She’s fighting for those girls, trying to rally me.

---