Page 59 of Goalie Lessons

For the next ten minutes, I run through the questionnaire I have for him—mood, feelings in the body, question after question that ask him to rate things on a scale from one to ten.

Without explicitly allowing the thought into my head, I wonder how he might rate me, and the flush—which had almost completely dispersed—is right back on my face.

When we finish the questions and I’ve logged all the information into my spreadsheet, I realize I’ve shifted closer to him and scoot back on the blanket. I know I can’t, but it’s almost like I feel the physical rush of the cool air flooding in between us.

A shiver darts up my back, and I look to the sky—the sun could come out any moment now.

“You’re cold,” Grayson says, giving me a look.

“You have to start your meditation,” I counter, knowing this is the part in the movie where he shrugs off his jacket, and I’m swathed in this scent, and every person walking past our blanket thinks we’re a couple.

“It might help if I knew how to meditate.”

“You’ve never done any mindfulness exercises? Not even with the team?”

Grayson laughs so suddenly and loudly that it actually makes me jump. He has to unfurl his legs, resting back on his wrists, his head tipped back.

He’s beautiful. I channel my frustration with him to keep from pushing forward, climbing into his lap and kissing him. I want his arms around me, want to feel the cool scrape of his denim jacket, the soft press of that skin just under his jaw.

“Okay,” I say, biting my tongue, trying not to laugh, trying to ignore my feelings. It all feels like too much, so I shove it down, roll it into a little ball and tuck it away. The feeling is like sitting on my hands to keep from fidgeting.

“Sorry,” Grayson says, wiping a hand over his face and shaking his head. “I don’t know how the hockey teams in California do things, but, uh—no, even with Coach Vic at the lead. We are notdoing mindfulnesstogether.”

“You might not believe this, but I don’t know how the hockey teams in California do things either,” I say rolling my eyes. “Besides, you could all use a little mindfulness—Coach Vic should get over himself and help Sloane with her mental health initiative.”

Grayson settles back into his seated position, and I walk him through the steps. Focusing on his breathing, letting thoughts come and go. Accepting the world how it is, and just existing within it, striving for a blank mind through relaxation.

At first, he’s slightly restless, shifting and running his palms down his sweats, but after five minutes, he’s gone completely quiet.

A full hour later, I tap him on the leg, and he opens his eyes slowly, almost like he was sleeping. But it’s clear he’s been awake, actually meditating. It’s pretty miraculous. When I first started, I could only go for five or ten minutes at a time before getting frustrated.

“Done?” he asks, his voice soft.

“Yeah. All done.”

Grayson

Thistime,whentheanxiety starts to come on, the first thing I think about is Astrid, sitting on that blanket with me in the park.

Right now, I’m on the ice, and the guys are setting up for the opening puck drop. Chanting fills the arena. Once again, we’re sold out, a turnout bolstered by Sloane and the administration’s efforts to sell season passes, to get sports fans invested in the team.

The ice is all blue today, with the deep navy and yellow of the Buffalo Sabres contrasting our light, icy blue and white. This team is decent, but nowhere near the best team we’ve faced this season. Coach has had us watching film all night, looking to me, making sure I see how tricky their shots can be, the way they open up the space around the net.

After two wins, we’re fired up, the crowd is fired up, and Coach has been pleased with my performance. I haven’t been pulled from the ice since our last pre-season game.

Things are going good. I can’t risk letting him—or anyone else on the team, for that matter—see that the anxiety is still hanging around me, always in the background, ready to pounce at any moment.

The start of an anxiety attack feels very similar to passing out—at least for me. I’ve only passed out a few times in my life. Once, after going on a particularly harrowing roller coaster. Several others when I’ve pushed myself too hard during training, not hydrated or fueled myself correctly, then asked too much of my body.

But for me, it always comes on with lightheadedness. Maybe that’s because I forget to breathe, the tightness in my chest clamping down like a vice, squeezing until my lungs feel like raisins. Then come little spots in my vision, and the nausea—that’s the worst part. Feeling sick to my stomach makes everything else worse, and I’m plagued with the idea that I might throw up, alerting everyone around me to the fact that something is wrong.

Sometimes, people talking to me makes it better. The introduction of an outside person can snap me out of the oncoming attack.

But sometimes people askingAre you okay?over and over only makes it worse. It only reminds me, again and again, that I amnotokay, and that there’s nothing really a stranger can do to make things better for me.

Now, the little dots come into my vision, and I suck in a breath, remembering Astrid’s words:“Just…somewhere you feel content, happy. Nothing too exciting.”

So I think about hiking with her. Watching her take the incline easily. The way she pulls her hair over her shoulder and turns to look at me, eyes wide and serious. The way Astrid always seems like she knows what she’s doing, capable and in control. With an answer for everything.

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