Page 24 of Goalie Lessons

Now, we’re in the scrimmage portion of practice, and I can feel exactly how my wholethingis affecting the vibes. It’s like my clumsy, block-limbed feeling is spreading throughout the team. Luca and Callum miss easy shots. Maverick loses his temper with another D-man. I’m affecting everything.

The thoughts are a tight spiral in my head, looping faster and faster, and the harder I try to get out of it, the more it sucks me in.

Luca sweeps the puck and starts to bring it down, dodging Maverick and sending it over to Callum, who skims it along the red line, then launches it back over to Luca.

Luca McKenzie’s form is impeccable—there’s a reason he was the number one draft pick. There’s a reason he’s the leader of this team. And that reason ricochets throughout the rink when he knocks it off the top bar of the goal.

I lunge for the block, but miss it, and the puck bounces down, into the goal.

“O’Connor!” the goalie coach is already in front of me, his brows drawn down. “We’ve talked about this a million times—why am I having to go back over the basic shit? You forget everything you learned in grade school? Elbows out, hands up, keep your chest square to the puck, Jesusfuckin’Christ—”

“Alright,” Coach Vic appears on the other side, his hand darting out, resting on the goalie coach’s shoulder. “Enough. Take five.”

The coach glances at him, then realizes Coach Vic is talking to him. He rolls his eyes and skates away, and I realize I’m panting, sucking in air, my vision starting to go black around the edges. Little dots swarm in my eyes, and Coach’s face starts to swim.

No—I can’t pass out right now. That would be far too embarrassing to come back from. O’Connor takes a little criticism and hits the ice.

“Freddy, get in here!”

My throat drops into my stomach when I hear Coach call for our third-string goalie to get on the ice. Every inch of my skin itches, and I want nothing more than to peel all this gear off and let myself breathe. I feel trapped under the weight of it.

But I also feel myself rooting to the spot, skates on the ice, heart thundering as Coach looks me over.

“Come here, O’Connor.”

Numbly, I skate with him to the side of the rink, blood rushing in my ears like I’ve been submerged in rapids.

“Listen,” Coach says when we’re far enough away from the other players that he can drop his voice and not be overheard. “I think you need to get some help, son. You’ve got a lot going on right now. Sloane was talking about getting some professionals in here, maybe we can set something up there. But it’s no good having you on the ice like this. Take the day off, try to get your head straight, okay? Look into making an appointment.”

I blink, jaw tightening. Here I am, getting pulled from practice. Being told to seek professional help. I’d laugh, if I wasn’t about to vomit inside my mouth.

“You good?” Coach slaps his hand on my shoulder and I bite my tongue, willing the physical symptoms to abide for just a second so I can get a breath of air. But he’s looking at me, and I don’t want him to realize just how bad it is.

“Heard.” I try to speak through the knot in my throat. “I’ll get it sorted.”

It’s all I can get out, and thankfully, it seems to be enough for him. He claps me on the shoulder again, and heads back out onto the ice.

As I turn and slide covers onto my skates, it hits me.

I’m leaving practice early.

Shame burns the tips of my ears, my entire body engulfed in flames. Images flash through my mind. The girls needing me. Astrid, cornering me at the barbecue and telling me I needed to do something, not just shove everything down.

The very thought of letting the swirling mess inside me out makes the anxiety double. Shoving things down is the only option I have right now. I just need to figure out a way to make it work better.

I move on autopilot through the locker room, undressing, showering, running a comb through my hair. Even my scalp feels numb, like the teeth of the comb aren’t really touching my skin.

By the time I’m in the hallway, shuffling toward my car, it feels like my brain is floating above my head.

That’s why it takes me so long to make sense of the woman in the hallway, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest.

“Astrid?”

“Grayson.” She pushes off the wall, eyes darting to the clock above my head. She draws her eyebrows together, glances back at me. “Practice done early?”

I shift my duffel on my shoulder, brain still trying to catch up with what she’s doing here—outside the locker room. Sloane is nowhere in sight. Why would Astrid be here on her own? How did she even get in here?

“Something like that,” I manage, and then, coming back to myself bit by bit. “What are you doing here?”

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