Page 4 of Goal Line

“I just saw them two seconds ago and was about to call you.” The second part is a lie, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“What happened?” she asks as she sinks into the seat Christopher vacated a minute ago. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just got dehydrated and passed out. It’s really no big deal. I wish you hadn’t come all this way?—”

“You’re in the hospital.Of courseI was going to come!” The genuine worry in her tone puts me at ease. I expected her to blow in here mad. She’s got a big personality and big emotions, with a knack for making everything about herself.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner and save you the trip. I’m fine, really.”

Letting out a relieved sigh, she pulls her glasses off her head and tucks them into the large bag she always carries. “Thank god.”

I don’t miss that she doesn’t say the thing most moms in this situation probably would:you’re pushing yourself too hard.There’s no such thing as pushing yourself “too hard” inHelene Wilcott’s book—at least not when an Olympic medal is the goal.

I nod toward the IV in my arm and tell her, “They’re just giving me some fluids, and they’re going to add in some iron because mine is low, and then I’ll be good to go.”

“Your iron is low? I’ll talk to your nutritionist about adding in more red meat.”

Closing my eyes briefly, I will myself to remain calm. I’m twenty-six years old and my mom still acts like she needs to make all my decisions for me, even what and how often I eat.

“I’ve got it under control, Mom.”

“Clearly not.” Folding her arms across her chest, she sits back in the chair and assesses me with her cool, impervious gaze. Is she worried? Disappointed? Upset? It’s impossible to tell.

The only person in the world who can read her, who can handle her and her big emotions, is my stoic father. Dad’s so different from Mom, so gentle and soft.

I’m instantly reminded of what happens every year. I always look forward to coming home for the summer, but within minutes of being around my mom, I struggle emotionally. Still, the quiet moments with my dad, enjoying a cup of tea on the deck each morning, and quality time with Luke almost every day, are what keep me coming back summer after summer.

A nurse knocks twice on the door before entering the room with Christopher on her heels. “I’m just going to add this to your IV, and we’ll start getting your discharge paperwork in order,” she tells me, ignoring my mom, where she sits next to my bed.

Mom opens her mouth, but I cut her off before she cansay anything. “Thank you so much,” I say to the nurse. “Do you have a sense of how long that’ll be, so we can reschedule our flights?”

“My guess is that you’ll be out of here in the next two hours, tops.”

“Thank you.” I turn toward my mother. “Mom, maybe you can work on getting us flights back to Boston tonight? And Christopher, is there a chance you can make it to LA tonight?”

“There’s a flight that leaves at 8 p.m. and has a few seats open. But I wasn’t sure,” he says, his eyes darting to my mom quickly, “if you needed me to stay.”

“No, it’s fine,” I assure him. “You should go back to LA, and we’ll go to Boston, as planned.”

“All right,” he says, glancing down at his phone. “I’ll book that now.”

Is it my imagination, or does he seem relieved?

Chapter Three

LUKE

Iglance at the countdown clock on the wall of the locker room. We have four minutes until the third period starts, and I haven’t had a chance to check my phone since sending Christopher Fucking Steele that text after warmups.

I have no idea if Eva’s okay. I have no idea if she got my warning before Helene showed up. And I have no idea how the hell I’m supposed to focus on what Coach is saying while I’m this worried about his daughter.

I’m watching his lips move, but my own thoughts are all I hear. He must tell us to get ready to take the ice, because my teammates are gathering up their gloves and helmets and moving toward the door.

I look down at my skates, and that’s when I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Son,” Coach Wilcott says. “I know you’re worried about her, but I need you to focus on the game.”

As a late season trade, I've only played for him for a fewmonths, but I've known him my whole life. The rumors about him are true: he's the kind of coach you dream about playing for. He’s supportive without giving you room to fuck up. He’ll bring you to task, but without making you feel small. He doesn’t hold anything over your head, and he treats you like the professional he expects you to be. He couldn’t be more different than my last head coach, and it has nothing to do with how long I’ve known him.

I want to ask him how I could possibly focus on the game right now with Eva in the hospital. But she’s his daughter, and he’s still able to do his job, so what the hell would my excuse be?