Page 83 of Goalie Lessons

“No,” I mouth, but don’t say, backing up from him like he might actually physically assault me. “No—”

“—I’m in love with you.”

It feels like the room floods with water, and I’m the only one who realizes we’re drowning, oxygen gone, items floating in debris around us.

“No, you don’t,” I counter, and that makes him hesitate for a second.

“Astrid—”

“No!” I say, tripping sideways as I grab for my bag. I’m only wearing one sock as I jam my feet into my shoes, hands shaking against the handle of my bag. “No you don’t, Grayson. This was sex. That’s all. We agreed that’s all it would be.”

“Yeah, but things change. I know your feelings have changed, too.”

“They haven’t.” It’s a lie, and I know it, but I also can’t bear to face the truth.

“You’re lying,” he counters, and I suck in a breath. I wasn’t expecting Grayson—timid, unsure Grayson—to stand up to me, but here he is. “What about the blow job, Astrid? Flying out here to see me? That’s notjustsex. Tonight wasn’t just sex!”

I can’t listen to this, can’t let his reasoning get into my head. “It was. I’m sorry, Grayson. That’s all it’s ever been between us, but I think it’s time for us to be done. Goodbye.”

With that, I do the only thing I know how to do. I turn, grab the handle, and walk out the door.

Grayson

“Haveyoubeenreadingthat book?” Coach Vic asks, eyeing me as we walk into the arena together. I wish I could be walking next to anyone else, but he made sure to sit close to me on the plane too, like he thinks he might be able to infuse some of his positive energy into me just from close proximity.

Knowing Coach, it’s not that far out of what he might genuinely believe.

“Yep,” I lie. I haven’t been reading the book—since Astrid left, the only thing I’ve been doing is going through the motions. The girls can tell, my teammates can tell.

Up ahead, I catch the bob of Sloane’s golden ponytail and itch to ask her about Astrid. To make sure she went somewhere safe after our—was it a fight?—in the hotel room.

But of course she did. Apparently, the woman I’ve been seeing lost both of her parents, and that was the first time she felt comfortable telling me about it. Apparently, she’s been filthy rich this entire time, and I didn’t know.

And I blew it. More specifically, I blew everything up.

She hasn’t responded to a single one of my texts.

Tomorrow, we’re back home. But tonight, we have one more away game. And I don’t have a good feeling about how well I’m going to be able to perform.

An hour later, we’re on the ice warming up, and Maverick keeps sending me worried glances. I’m not missing every block, but I’m not on fire like I have been. It feels like all my fast-twitch muscle fibers have gone on vacation.

The game starts, the Rangers lining up across from us, the arena booming with fans chanting, singing, hollering, and spinning their noise makers. The ref drops the puck, and Luca angles hard for it, sending it immediately to Callum, and it enters play.

The puck zips across the ice, a black blur against white. I track it with my eyes, trying to shift my weight as it moves, feeling the pressure move from one skate to the other.

My heart hammers against my chest protector. Only five minutes into the first period, and I already feel like I’ve been out here for hours.

“Focus, O’Connor!” Coach hollers, and I wince—it’s not often he yells to us from the bench, and even less often that we can hear it. And if I heard it, that means everyone else on the team did, too.

I shift my stance, trying to find my center. Normally, that feeling comes to me naturally, honed after years and years of defending a goal, but right now, everything feels wrong. My pads too tight, my mask too close to my face. Every breath I take feels shallow, like it’s not quite filling my lungs.

The Rangers gain control of the puck, the center heading down the ice and straight toward me. Maverick moves to cut him off, but a quick pass to the winger opens up space. I drop into my stance, trying to track the play, but they’re all moving a fraction faster than I’m able to process right now.

When the shot comes, I’m a split second too late.

The puck glances off my blocker, then slowly slides behind me. I lunge backward, sweeping my stick desperately across the crease, but I’m too slow, and it’s too late.

The red-light flashes, the horn blares, and the Ranger crowd erupts into cheering.

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