Page 90 of Goalie Lessons

When I close my eyes, I can see Astrid hesitating outside the door, her gaze meeting mine. I feel the hope that I felt in that moment, then the disappointment as she turned around and went inside. I have no idea how to talk to her, how to get through to her, but I don’t want to just let her go.

I want Astrid to talk to me. Tell me what’s going on—how we can make this work.

“Heads up!”

The words come hollering down the ice, and I snap to attention just in time to intercept the puck before it reaches the goal. Maverick gives me a look as he skates past, and it’s just like the look he gave me the other night when Astrid walked away.

Something is off tonight—not just with me, but with the entire team. Luca and Callum can’t connect their passes. Maverick is breaking down with defensive coverage, shouting at another D-man on the ice to get it together.

Coach Vic is shouting directives, but none of us can hear him through the roar of the crowd. It’s mostly Frost fans, but there are a lot more Boston fans here than I would have expected.

The Bruins shoot, and I block it. Two minutes later, they get another shot at the net, and this one slides in. We’re barely holding on, the score three to two, and Boston is playing brutally, their enforcer targeting Luca, making sure to throw him around and try to knock him off his game.

The refs call nothing, and I can see Maverick’s anger levels rising, his shoulders getting tenser and tenser each time the Bruins pull some shady shit and the refs don’t do a thing about it.

Callum and Luca fight like hell through the Bruin’s defense, knocking the puck into the goal, but there’s no time to celebrate, because the Bruins get a shot off the next face-off, and I’m overwhelmed by the rush—it slides past me, right into the net.

Before I even have time to process the goal, all hell breaks loose at center ice. Luca and the Bruins’ captain are throwing punches, and everyone gets involved, sticks and gloves littering the ice as the refs skate back, watching.

Through the chaos, I spot Callum landing a right hook on a Bruins defenseman. Maverick is right in the middle of the mix, despite already having a fighting major.

When the dust settles, three of our guys and two of theirs head to the penalty box. Maverick, receiving his second fighting major, is ejected from the game.

“This is a fucking joke,” he says, saying it only loud enough for the refs to hear. This is night and day from how the old Maverick would act—no thrown helmets, no obscenities, just a calm, cold stare at the refs as he leaves. “You guys need to do your fucking job—keep slurs from flying on the ice, huh?”

With that, Maverick is gone, and what was left of our cohesion is completely gone. When I glance up into the box, I see Ruby there with Leo, Callie, and Athena. From her body language, she doesn’t seem bothered at all that her husband has been escorted from the ice.

Callie stands at the glass, staring down at me, and something tightens in my chest. The call from the lawyer. The look on Callie’s face when I’d accused her of making Savannah quit.

I’m not cut out to raise these girls. But I can’t stand the thought of giving them back to someone who can’t take care of them.

At once, I realize the tightness in my chest is starting to close in, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Dots swim in my vision, and I’m lucky as hell that we’re going into a TV break, because I’m able to skate over to the bench and get Coach’s attention.

“Put Martinez in,” I croak.

“O’Connor?” Coach asks, swinging his attention to me, his gray mustache jumping when he sees me. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Put Martinez in,” I say again, before skating for the exit. Coach calls something after me, but I can’t hear him through the roaring in my ears.

I don’t want to leave the game, but I also don’t want to have a panic attack on live television, so this is my only option. The game was so intense that I wasn’t paying attention to my body, keeping track of the tension, using coping mechanisms like before to keep the episode at bay.

And now I’m paying for it.

Dropping onto a bench, I rip my skates off, barely seeing the people who come to help. When I stumble out into the hallway, I’m barefoot and breathing hard, and when I find a quiet alcove, I press my back against it and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, the attack ready to wash right over me.

Astrid

Icantellsomethingis wrong with Grayson long before he skates to the side of the rink, then over to the gate, practically falling through it.

Around me, the crowd murmurs, wondering what’s wrong with him, speculating on why he’s leaving. It’s a sea of Frost jerseys, all white and light blue, turning heads as he disappears into a little tunnel on the side of the arena.

“Maybe food poisoning?” a man asks as I push past, and it makes me walk a little faster.

I shouldn’t be here. Especially not when I’m still trying to work out the way I feel about Grayson, but I couldn’t stop myself. I bought a cheap ticket up in the nosebleeds, and this time, I was lucky enoughnotto run into Sloane on my way into the arena.

Everything has been so confusing for me lately, and for some reason, it felt like coming to a hockey game was going to help me find clarity.

I move through the hallways, trying to figure out which way Grayson went when he came off the ice. I need to find him, and luckily, I run into an arena staff member who remembers me hanging out with Sloane, and lets me into the back rooms where fluorescent lights shine and there’s not another fan in sight.

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