Page 13

Astrid

“It’s not good, Astrid.”

I’m sitting at the dining table at Sloane and Callum’s place, watching as she paces back and forth, one hand holding her phone, the other buried in her hair. She’s been like this for the past forty-five minutes.

“I can see that.” I lean forward, taking a sip of the artisanal soda Sloane has poured in a glass. Behind her, through the sliding glass door, I can see the surface of the pool, the floaties bobbing merrily, and try to push down my disappointment that we’re not out there right now.

“Luca is freaking out—he doesn’t want to push him too hard, ask for too much, but the admins were at practice the other day when Grayson had to walk out.”

Even the sound of his name makes my body more aware. Sloane has been talking through the goalie problem this entire time, getting on and off the phone, so I should be more numb to mentions of him.

Apparently not.

“They’re not happy about paying for a goalie that doesn’t even come to work . Their words, not mine. How do we explain to them that he’s like…sick?”

“It’s complicated.” I tip my head and watch as her glass of soda continues to sweat, condensation building up and running down the side of the glass, where it pools on the surface.

“And then there’s the problem of the guys. Callum said it was bad, that the vibes during practice were totally off. And Freddy—he’s hilarious, but he’s not a very good goalie. What happens if it’s just Martinez pulling weight? He’s nearing retirement. What do we do? The general manager is asking if we should start looking for a replacement.”

This is the first thing that genuinely shocks me. I drop my straw back into my drink and pull back, watching her as she comes to a stop, rubbing her palms over her cheeks, her eyes meeting mine.

“…Look for a replacement?” I ask, eyebrows through the roof. “It’s been—what? Like two weeks of him feeling a little off? And with everything he’s going through, they’re thinking of benching him?”

“Not benching,” Sloane says, her face white. “ Trading him. If they can. The season hasn’t started yet, so this would be a good time—”

“That’s ridiculous .” I frown, running my fingers through the condensation on the counter’s surface.

“You don’t have to tell me.” She closes her eyes, bringing her hand to her temple. “He was doing so well at the start of the summer—Luca was saying he thought this was going to be the best season. That with the way Grayson was performing, and with Maverick back, that other guy coming in from Houston, too—”

Sloane stops again, bracing her hands on the table. Without warning, she looks up, eyes narrowing in on my drink.

“Is it good? It’s from that little place down the street—”

“ Sloane ,” I laugh, waving my hand in front of her face. “You need to take a breather, girl. Is all this stuff even your responsibility? What’s in your job description as team manager?”

She sighs again. “It doesn’t matter what’s in the job description. It’s like with Luca—it’s not in his description as captain to take the franchise’s success onto his plate, but that’s what he’s doing. This is like…like a family endeavor now. It’s more than just a paycheck for me.”

Sloane doesn’t say it, but I get the feeling that she’s also trying to make up for writing about the Frost in the past. Before becoming the Team Manager for the Frost, Sloane’s primary project was Slap Shot, her media company, and it was a big secret. On the various platforms, she published content that pointed out flaws in Luca and Callum, and in the Frost, as a way to try and keep people from figuring out who was really behind the articles.

Except the articles got more and more intense, and when Callum and Luca found out about it, they were rightfully hurt.

All this—throwing herself into her job with the Frost—might be another way of making up for all the stuff published by Slap Shot.

“Stop it,” Sloane says, breaking me out of my thoughts.

I hold my palms up. “Stop what?”

“Don’t be coy—you’re analyzing me. Thinking about the Slap Shot stuff. You know I’ve always wanted to work in hockey. That’s not the only reason I’m doing it.”

“Geez, Sloane, now who’s the one over-analyzing?”

She rolls her eyes and tosses a balled-up napkin at me. I grab it, standing to throw it in the trash, when my phone buzzes. One glance tells me it’s a Milwaukee number—maybe a follow-up from one of the research centers?

“Well?” Sloane asks, bouncing from foot to foot, her eyes wide, excited. Knowing her, she’s already fantasizing about my move to Milwaukee, how we’ll go to the pumpkin patch together, and spend the holidays skiing.

But I’m already thinking about what it will be like to have my dream job—working in a research center, designing studies, conducting trials. Figuring out how the human brain works in real time, pushing forward with what we can discover about how we think.

Waving her away, I grab the phone, move into the guest room, and answer breathlessly.

“Hello, Dr. Astrid Foster speaking.”

***

I’m still mulling over the conversation with the research center, completely absorbed in my own head, that when Georgia pops up in front of me just inside the door, I actually jump and drop my keys to the floor.

“Sorry!” she chirps, laughing as she bends to pick them up. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You look like you have something on your mind!”

“Oh,” I laugh—she only has me here through the summer, but it still feels rude to talk about a different job you want at your current one.

Besides, who even knows if I’m going to get a research position? The lab manager who called me last night was excited about my resume, excited about my experience, excited about everything except my proposed studies, and the case study I submitted.

“You know how it is now,” she’d said, voice carefully professional, HR-trained. “We need research that the public will understand . That they’ll be interested in.”

Now, I realize Georgia is still talking, “…and you’re the only one.”

Blinking, I reach backwards in my mind, hoping it’s recorded some of what she’s said for me to recall. Unfortunately, my mind is blank.

“Okay,” I try, because I don’t want to admit I zoned out and wasn’t listening to a word she said just now.

“Excellent!” She claps her hands, and the keys on her key ring all jangle. “You head to your office, and I’ll send her in.”

At this point, I realize I should get some clarification, but it’s too late—Georgia is already walking away, calling out little greetings to the kids and other staff in the lobby. I sigh and follow her path, hooking a right to go to the elevator so I can avoid following her up the stairs.

Does she want me to collaborate with someone else on the planning? Or show what I have so far? My progress was pretty slowed down by my little playground session with Callie last week.

I’ve barely been in my office for five minutes and am just plugging my laptop into the charger when there’s a polite little knock on my door. Georgia stands there with Callie, looking in.

“Here we go!” she says, giving Callie an encouraging pat and waving to me.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m flailing, and I stand. “Georgia, wait—”

Callie stands completely still, her eyes locked on me. Though her arms are hanging at her sides, I can picture her so easily with them crossed, a scowl permanently in place on her lips.

Georgia turns around, raising her eyebrows at me. “What’s up?”

“I’m not—I’m not licensed to do counseling.” I gesture vaguely in Callie’s direction. “Is that—?”

“Oh,” Georgia’s brows draw together. “That’s right. Well, Callie, we do have a counselor, Mr. Jones—”

“No,” Callie shakes her head, taking a step back. “ No. ”

“Now, come on—” Georgia starts, but Callie is already turned, walking back down the hallway. Georgia glances back at me quickly, “Sorry, hun. I forgot you aren’t licensed.”

With that, she turns and follows Callie.

I slump back into my chair, mind whirring. Grayson has to find a better solution for her, needs to find another—an actual —professional that she feels comfortable talking to.

For the next four hours, I sink into my work, outlining educational materials and keeping my mind off everything. I don’t think about the research center. I don’t think about Callie. And I don’t think about Grayson.

That is, until I’m leaving the center, walking to my car, and hear the low tenor of his voice. I look up to realize he’s parked right next to me, in the middle of lifting Athena into his car.

“Astrid—” Grayson catches my gaze “—hold on a second.”

I stand outside my car, sweating, watching as he carefully closes the door on Athena and tells the girls it’s only going to be a moment. Even from here, I can feel Callie’s disdain at being left in the car.

“Hey,” he says, and the way he leans against his car takes the breath from my lungs. Casual yet genuine, his voice like he’s just been waiting to see me again.

“Hey,” I return, raising my eyebrows, gesturing toward my car, then feeling awkward about doing that. “What’s up?”

“So…” He pauses, looks up to the sky, then meets my eye. “I—I tried to talk to Callie about her seeing someone. A professional. And she’s insisted that she only wants to talk to you.”

“Grayson,” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m not licensed—”

“Then we don’t do it in any sort of professional capacity.” He takes a step towards me, and his voice is practically pleading. It does something strange to my belly, making it turn slowly, butterflies rising. “I just—she needs to talk to someone. Even if it’s just, like, a trusted adult, you know?”

“A trusted adult,” I repeat, and he winces, which makes me laugh.

“I don’t know what I’m saying.” He looks out over the lot, then back to me. “Callie needs someone to listen to her right now, and for some reason, you’re the only one she wants to talk to. I can pay you—”

I hold my hand up, about to tell him that him paying me is, first, unnecessary, and second, would negate the whole not in a professional capacity thing. I’m about to tell him that the whole thing is so far-fetched, that I don’t have time for chats with a thirteen-year-old—but then something occurs to me.

And Grayson must realize I’m thinking, because he takes a tiny step back, sweeping his eyes up and down the length of me, considering.

“What?” he asks, brow furrowing. “What are you thinking?”

I’m thinking that, to get a spot at a research facility, I’m going to need a case study that wows . I’m thinking that studying alternative methods of treatment in regular people doesn’t pop, but with a professional athlete?

Ideas are already running through my head—how professional sports affect mental health in elite athletes. The actual biochemistry and neurochemistry of the processes. There are so many opportunities there, and including a big name—or medium name—like Grayson O’Connor might just be what helps me over the edge.

“I can see that you’re thinking about something,” Grayson hedges. “Mind telling me what it is so I can nudge you in the right direction?”

“I’m thinking…” I say slowly, taking another step toward him, suddenly feeling very hungry. “That I might agree to this, if you can do something for me.”

His eyes darken, gaze flicking down to my lips for the briefest moment. I watch the way his throat bobs as he swallows. Then, finally, after forever, he says, “Anything.”