Page 10

Grayson

The sun hovers over the horizon, spilling out amber light and flitting around, appearing only briefly between glinting buildings before disappearing again. I rest one hand on the steering wheel, gently turning into the curve of the highway as we leave the barbecue.

Calliope and Athena are in the backseat. Athena is fast asleep, having finally given in to the fun and swimming to her heart’s content. It was the slightest bit of relief, to see her smile for the first time since landing in Milwaukee.

Her sister, though, was much more stubborn. Refusing to get in the water, insisting only on sitting on the side of the pool and letting her feet dangle inside. The only time I saw her mask of anger crack was when Leo sat next to her, excited, talking to her about a kids’ movie until she finally gave in and said something back to him.

Athena nibbled on a strawberry. Calliope took a single bite of a plain hamburger. Both of them insisted they were not hungry.

“Who was that boy?”

The sound of Calliope’s voice is so unexpected in the cab of the quiet car that I physically jolt before meeting her eyes sheepishly in the rear-view mirror. She’s sitting with her arms crossed, which seems to be her default position. And she looks somewhat pleased with herself for having taken me by surprise.

“That was Leo,” I say, hands moving as I turn the car, maneuvering it out of the city and toward my suburb. “He’s Maverick and Ruby’s little boy.”

Both girls received introductions to various players, most of which I assume they will not remember. Everyone was welcoming, trying to make them feel at home. I could have saved them some time and told them that so far, that tactic has not been fruitful.

“Hmm.” Calliope sniffs, runs her hand under her nose, sniffs again.

I stare at her, then out the windshield, mind racing, trying to figure out what to say. I feel like I’m in a game show, and trying to guess my answer to win a prize. Only I don’t know any of the topics, and the clock I’m looking at isn’t counting down in a straight line, but randomly jumping around, eventually landing on zero when I think I still have time.

“I could…” I clear my throat. “I could see if he wants to hang out—”

“ No .” The word is sharp, a snap of a syllable, but says far more than the single word. It says Absolutely not, why would you think I would want that? and What a stupid thing to say and This conversation is over .

Sighing, I watch as she repositions her body so she’s facing the window, looking fully out at the city as we pass it by. Basically, the physical embodiment of a cold shoulder.

With Calliope ignoring me and Athena starting to snore gently, my mind turns back to the only other thing taking up space in my head right now.

Astrid.

Specifically, the look on her face when she turned and practically fled the scene outside the bathroom, taking the stairs so fast I thought for a second that she might lose her footing and tumble all the way down.

She was lying, of course—I’m not sure anyone who’s said It’s not you, it’s me in the history of time has actually been telling the truth. Does anyone actually think it’s them? Of course whatever turned her away that night was me, but I just can’t figure out what it was.

All the stolen glances, the staring, the dancing together, and how my hand had slipped down to the small of her back. How she’d shivered in my arms, looking up at me with glassy eyes, wide pupils.

It was like I was a different person. Being around her made me that way, made me feel like anything was possible. So I’d gone along with that feeling.

The first time I questioned if the whole thing was one-sided was when she appeared at the end of the hallway, reaching into her pocket for her room key. In that moment, I had a flash of worry that I might just be an unwanted presence, a creepy man recalling her room and waiting for her just outside it.

Then she looked up at me, and I saw the expression that passed over her face.

Surprised.

A pleasant surprise.

And then we were in her room, and I was taking her clothes off, and the sex was great. After, I’d settled back into the pillows and she’d settled in beside me, nuzzling her head into the crook of my arm.

It felt right.

But the next morning, when I woke up, I was in her room, alone. Not only had she left the room, but she’d left the estate, left the country without even so much as a goodbye kiss. No number, no indication that she wanted to hear from me again.

After that, I hovered somewhere between confidence that I’d had a one-night stand with a woman like that , and insecurity about the reason she hadn’t stuck around. Apparently, that mix was the perfect juice for my game.

I run through the night again, examining each moment, turning it over, trying to figure it out, until we’re pulling into my driveway, and Calliope is unbuckling her seat belt the moment the car comes to a stop.

Rather than going straight inside, she puts a hand on her sister.

“Thena,” she says, voice surprisingly gentle for a girl so angry. “Wake up.”

Athena stirs and lets out a little sound that makes my chest loosen. Even amidst all the anxiety, there have been small moments like this. Watching the girls and feeling something—is it paternal?—about them.

The girls are out of the car, and we’re walking inside, and I barely have time to try and talk them into a snack before Calliope is ushering them back into their shared bedroom and shutting the door for the night.

I sigh, take a deep breath, and settle in on the couch. With her closing the door like that—her general dissatisfaction with this situation—I haven’t felt right sleeping in my bedroom up the hall. Like I need to keep watch over them, position myself between those girls and the front door.

An hour later, after tossing and turning, I’m drifting off, my dreams immediately filling with the sight of Astrid in her dress, smiling at me and pulling me into her room.

***

“Come on, O’Connor, you’ve got it!”

We’re split up doing skill drills, and sweat runs down the side of my face, over my cheek, and into the collar of my undershirt. We’re running a fairly standard drill—two guys to my ten and two—Tyler Chen and Marcus Johnson—pucks lined up in front of them, hammering them at me as I try and block them. Sometimes they’ll pass to one another first.

And normally, this drill is nothing for me. Butterfly down, drop the knee, block the shot. Gloves out, puck down.

But right now, each shot is like a fly zipping past me. Impossibly small and fast, and I’m supposed to catch it in my metaphorical chopsticks. They shoot, I block one, miss two. Chen and Johnson exchange worried glances, and my goalie coach skates over, adjusting my stick, shouting to be heard over the sound of the other drills going on around the ice.

“This is all focus, O’Connor. Just follow through, let your body take over. You’re being too stiff, man.”

I breathe, meet his eyes and let him know I’ve heard him. Johnson and Chen exchange another look, then pass and rocket another puck my way.

It slips through.

“Fuck,” I hiss it to myself, the word bouncing around in my helmet. But even if the guys can’t hear me, they know the sentiment in my head. My body feels like a rough amalgamation of parts connected with strings, limbs difficult for me to control. Second by second, I alternate between feeling way too tense, then like a rag doll, arms hanging on without power.

Across the ice, Coach Vic blows his whistle, and we all turn to look.

“Scrimmage!” he hollers. “Take five and get back out here!”

We break apart, going to the side for water and a minute of rest before returning to the ice. I find my position in front of the goal. On the other side, Xavier Martinez hunkers down to guard the other one.

Nearly a full decade older than me, Martinez has a lot more experience and knowledge. But when I came onto the team, I brought a fresh feeling, replacing a guy who was retiring. I’d left college early to come to the NHL, and was younger than the rest of the guys.

That was two seasons ago, and since then, I’ve only upped my play time, finally tipping the scales and taking more from Martinez. He doesn’t seem to mind—he’s headed for retirement soon. My hands start to shake as I grip my stick, watching Coach Vic skate around, speaking with different players before we launch into the scrimmage.

Goalies typically have to share time on the ice—it’s too taxing to play the whole game—but I want more of that time, rather than less. When a new, younger goalie comes onto the team, I want to hold my own a little longer. Keep that play time I’ve earned. And if I don’t get my shit together, Coach might just start re-thinking the minutes I’ve earned.

We jump right into the scrimmage, and my bad luck continues. Each time the guys get the puck on my side of the ice, my body starts to lock up, waves of heat rushing from head to toe. And the knowledge that I’m struggling only makes it worse—my movements more awkward, slower, like it’s taking more and more time for me to process.

The scrimmage goes on for twenty more minutes, with Coach pausing to have the back-up guys adjust their strategy, emulate the team we’ll be playing next. He blows the whistle and tells a forward to “feel the flow” then recites a line of poetry before launching us back into it.

Somehow, that works for the forward, who’s able to launch past our defense—his passes quick and snappy—before he gets the puck back and rockets it right toward me.

It slips through. If this practice counted toward my save percentage, I’d be fucked.

“Shake it off, O’Connor.”

I blink, realizing Coach is at my side, and the other guys are helmets off, guzzling water and heading for the locker room.

“Sorry, Coach. I—”

“Hey.” He stops, eyes serious as he peers at me, his gray hair puffing out from under his ball cap. “You don’t have to tell me, O’Connor. Word travels fast around here. I know the pressure you’re under right now. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for your loss. You do the best you can, give it your all on the ice, and things will work out.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder, then skates away, leaving me feeling a strange mix of heavy hope, disappointment, and the oddest sense of dread that this time, Coach might just have no idea what he’s talking about.