Page 86 of Goalie Lessons

“Over there is Malibu,” she said, tipping her head to the right, where a land mass rises from the water. “That’s where all the celebrities live.”

This was her favorite spot on the pier, even more than the beach.

I run my hands up and down my jeans, take a breath, and stare out into the ocean, a vibrant, almost impossibly cerulean blue.

Grayson’s voice comes back to me.

“Astrid, I had no idea.”

“You don’t have to write off the way you feel, Astrid.”

“I just…I want you to know that you can talk to me.”

“I’m in love with you.”

I don’t realize I’m biting my tongue until I taste blood. What is it about that—about thinking Grayson might love me—that makes me so uncomfortable?

Last night, when I was staring at the ceiling, telling him about my parents, it felt so natural. Easy. Talking about finishing high school without them, and going right to college, then my master’s, then a doctorate.

Anything to keep my mind occupied.

I sit up a little taller on the bench, hands starting to shake as I sit with the realization. Every person I’ve been with since the death of my parents has been just that—a distraction. A way to pass the time. It’s incredibly clichéd, and impossibly obvious, but I’ve been running from intimacy with other people because I’m afraid.

I’m afraid that if I admit I love someone to the universe, it might just take them away from me.

Grayson

Thehighfromthegame falls flat the second I walk into my house.

Something is off—that much is clear from the energy inside. All the lights are turned off, and I don’t hear either of the girls.

What did I think? That they were going to leap to their feet, come to meet me at the door? Maybe. It’s what I want to do now, running through the house until I can find them and gather them in my arms.

“Hello?” I call.

“In here!” Savannah calls back, and there’s something strange about her tone. When I walk into the kitchen, she stands in there alone, folding a kitchen towel over the oven handle. Her eyes skip up to mine, and she gives me a terse smile. “Hey, Mr. O’Connor.”

Ten minutes later, I’ve lost my nanny—Savannah has loved working with the girls, but they’re just a little too much for her.

Specifically, Callie.

“I just don’t think we mesh,” Savannah says, gently placing a hand on my forearm. “And that’s okay. I hope you and the girls can find someone who really works.”

It feels like I’m trying to swallow rocks. I thought everything was fine. I thought Callie liked Savannah.

Everything with Astrid hangs over my head like a dense cloud, but winning the game managed to lift it. With that win—one of our toughest games—Luca is fairly sure we can maintain our record and get into the playoffs. Now, with a lapse in childcare and no clue who’s going to take care of the girls the next time I have to leave, I feel my anxiety rise in my chest like a shaken serpent.

I thought everything was fine—maybe I’m just not doing enough. Maybe I’m never doing enough.

“Callie!” Her name is flying from my mouth before I know what’s happening, and I’m climbing up the stairs toward her room, unable to tamp my agitation down. “Callie!”

“Geez, why are you yelling?” She throws open the door to her room and fixes her eyes on me, something strange flitting over her gaze before it disappears.

For a second, I’m stunned—I’ve been gone for a little more than a week, and yet she already looks older. Is that what it’s like to be around kids? Missing a single week means you’ve missed an inch of growth?

“Do youneedsomething?” she scowls, and it brings my anger right back.

“What did you do to Savannah?”

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