Page 12

Grayson

“Come on, O’Connor! Eyes!”

I blink and try to ignore the trickle of sweat running over my brow. The goalie coach is staring right at me, clearly pissed off, his movements jerky as he yells over the ice.

I’ve been off all day.

It started in the calisthenics room, where the trainer kept saying I was too tight. That ended with me trying to stretch harder, and getting one of those searing pains up the left side of my neck.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the sound of Athena crying last night, the way her little sniffles carried down the hall. The pain in those noises, and how I felt so helpless to do anything for her.

If I knew the girls better, I’d go to them, hug them—but I’m practically a stranger. It’s like trying to have a conversation over miles of distance, making yourself hoarse with shouting while the other person can’t hear a word you’re saying.

My thoughts drifted back and forth between thinking about the girls, and trying to focus on my performance, getting my head in the game.

During drills, I was just moving too slowly. It was like everyone else was moving at a slightly different time than me, like my fast-twitch muscle fibers were roped up, way too stiff to act the way I wanted them to.

Every shot I took was jerky, uncoordinated. My teeth even clacked together in my mouth, like the various parts of me weren’t sure how to fit together anymore.

Now, we’re in the scrimmage portion of practice, and I can feel exactly how my whole thing is 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, Jesus fuckin’ 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?”

Now it’s her turn to look somewhat nervous.

“How are things going with the girls?” she asks, the question seeming like a diversion. Is she here to talk more about my question?

A flutter of energy rises through my stomach. Maybe she’s going to tell me the truth about why she ran away.

This entire interaction is bizarre, but there’s something oddly comforting about being in her presence. It’s almost like talking to her is snapping me away from the pending attack, so I go along with it.

“About how you’d imagine,” I say, surprising myself by choosing to go with the truth. Pausing, I dip my head and ruffle my hand through the back, fluffing up the damp curls. “I’m pretty sure they both hate me.”

She nods, like that’s what she expected, and starts to pace in front of me, her hands holding her elbows. “Okay—so I’m working at the center.”

“The center?”

“West Milwaukee Children’s Center . Callie and Athena are doing daycare there?”

I blink, realizing she’s talking about the place I’ve been dropping them off at in the mornings. I’d thought of it as a summer camp. “Oh—yeah. Their case worker wanted to get them around other kids, she said an opening had just come up for two.”

Astrid just stares at me, and I add, “It was the only place that had an opening for both. I couldn’t separate them. I know it’s more for low-income kids. I made a donation—”

She waves her hand in front of her face, as though swatting at a fly, like that’s not the issue. “Not every kid is sponsored there. That’s not—” She lets out a long breath. “That’s not the problem. I’m pretty sure this is some sort of conflict of interest, but I’m worried about her.”

“Athena?”

“Well, both of them, but Callie more.”

“Calliope—”

“She asked me to call her Callie,” Astrid cuts in, gently.

It takes my brain another long moment to catch up, to realize Astrid is talking about a conversation that took place between them.

“She talked to you?”

This all feels sudden, but the idea that Calliope—Callie—was willing to talk to any adult feels almost too good to be true. The case worker has had her and Athena both seeing a professional children’s therapist since the accident, and according to them, Callie has been unwilling to say even a word in any of the sessions, not wanting to talk to the therapist. She even refused to color, or do any sort of activity. Just sitting completely quietly until the time was up.

“Yeah,” Astrid starts to rub her biceps up and down, and my eyes catch on the movement. “There was this whole thing on the playground. But they should be seeing someone—”

“They are ,” I say. “Callie has refused to talk to anyone. Except you, apparently.”

Astrid shifts back and forth, then looks to the ceiling. “I don’t want to tell you what to do, Grayson, but I saw some concerning warning signs from her today. It’s a good idea for you to keep an extra careful eye on her.”

Without meaning to, I let out an amused huff.

Astrid shifts, crossing her arms. “What is that for?”

“Sorry.” I drag a hand over my face roughly, letting out another laugh, and then the words come out of me before I can stop them. “I’m having a hard enough time taking care of myself.”

When I open my eyes, I’m expecting worry, concern—maybe even empathy from Astrid. That familiar creased gaze, the one that comes from other people when I have an anxiety attack in their presence.

But when I look at her, there’s just a smug smile on her face. It jolts me enough that some of the anxiety ebbs, simmering down further into a low hum.

“What?” I laugh, and she does, too, taking a step back and shaking her head. Our gazes hold for a second, and I feel it there again—that connection that flowed between us at the wedding. Some sort of tether.

And I know she feels it, too.

“Nothing.” She shrugs, grinning, sticking her hands in her pockets and rocking forward as she says, “Almost like someone was right about pretending everything is okay.”

She’s teasing me.

“Oh, what ever, ” I laugh, unable to stop the smile that spreads over my face. It feels erratic, to be laughing like this, but it also feels so, so good.

Then, as quickly as it started, it ends. A door slams at the end of the hall and Astrid jumps, her eyes darting past me. Sobering up, she clears her throat.

“Just—see if you can find someone for her to talk to? And keep an eye on her, Grayson.”

The sound of my name on her lips makes me shiver, and I watch as she turns around, heading toward the door.

“I will,” I say, but it’s too late—she’s already pushing through the door, letting in a flood of sunshine before she disappears into the bright Milwaukee summer.