Page 15

Astrid

The second I get into my car, I crank the AC and point it at myself. I was fine until we got to the top of that incline. Until Grayson O’Connor was leaning in, his body in my space, that familiar awareness spreading over my skin. Until I was asking him questions, yet again, and he was evading them.

Verbally, no, but mostly in his behavior. How his eyes cut away from me, how he’d focus on something else, turning to look out at the view instead of meeting my gaze. He may have agreed to this for Callie’s sake, but it’s clear he’s not that interested in being a test subject.

As I pull out onto the road, I crack the window and let the fresh air come in. I’ve been like this since I was a kid—wanting the air or heat on, but also wanting the window open. Now that I’m an adult, it’s my ultimate victory in the world, to have this combination of temperature control and the blast of the AC against my skin, over my sweaty hair.

On the way back down the hill, we hardly said anything to one another. If I asked a question, Grayson answered tepidly, carefully, not giving me much to work with. It was obvious he wasn’t a hiker, or really an outdoorsy kind of guy, and I hated how much I wanted to change that.

How much I wanted to be the one to introduce him to the way it could feel, to finish a hike in the morning and go to a brewery, ravenous for lunch in the afternoon. The way sweat cooling on your skin in the sunshine made you feel like a newly minted person. How a hot shower later that night would melt you in all the right ways.

Unbidden, my mind offers me the image of Grayson in the shower, all long limbs and rounded muscles. Specifically, I picture the spot just below his elbow, that soft curve of muscle covered in dark hair. The way I’d wanted to reach out, pinch it between my fingers today. What it would look like, feel like, to be standing in the shower with Grayson, permission to touch him in any place I wanted.

“No,” I say out loud, firmly, hoping this will be enough to shake myself from the thoughts. There is a reason I’m not engaging with Grayson, why it’s important that I keep these images to myself and far away from the decision-making portions of my brain.

My car circles the highway, and the city opens up in front of me. I stare at the exits, mind working. Callum is definitely awake by now, probably working out at home, or having gone into the practice facility. I remember, suddenly, that Sloane said she was going in to work on her podcast today, in the Slap Shot office.

As I take the exit, I think about the last time I was in that building, nearly two years ago. Watching as Sloane conducted an interview with players from the Frost—including Grayson. Watching as she and Callum got to their knees in front of each other, pulling out rings, being completely ridiculous.

Outwardly, I’d hated it. Inside, I completely melted.

Downtown Milwaukee springs to life around me, the buildings slowly getting taller. I drink it in, feeling a strange sense of contentment, despite the fact that I’m still dressed for the hike, covered in sweat, and not looking anything like the businesspeople that pass by on the street.

I push in through the lobby and follow the directory: Slapshot Media, fourth floor.

When the elevator dings and lets me in, I realize the space has come a long way since I was here last. The lobby is drenched in golden oak, the long reception desk stretching almost the length of one wall, an intricate pattern of wood telling me that Sloane probably sourced it from some sort of furniture artisan, a local thing she had to have in her office.

In fact, looking around, I can almost picture exactly what Sloane was thinking with all the pieces, colors ranging between a puritan pine and American oak, the cushions and fabrics green, plants sprouting up around the space in pots, along the ceiling, around the reception desk. Spanning the wall behind the desk are huge, blown up pictures of famous hockey moments, sticks raised, confetti falling. It’s like a snapshot of the edit at the start of a documentary, to the point where you can almost hear the cheering when you look at it.

I think of my office at the center, what it would be like to have a space like this that really felt like my own.

“Astrid?”

I turn to the sound of my name, surprised to find Sydney standing at the start of the hallway, her mouth open, expression quickly turning to a bright smile.

“Oh my god,” she says, stepping in and roping me into a hug. Sydney is a lot like Sloane—a hugger and a bright, friendly person. “Sloane didn’t even tell me you were in the city! That bitch.”

I laugh, shaking my head at the casual friendship between Sloane and her right-hand woman.

Sydney’s glossy brown hair is shorter than the last time I saw her, cut so the tips just barely brush the top of her blazer when she moves her head. It looks fantastic on her, with her obviously professionally tailored outfit and expensive shoes. Sydney has always seemed very mentally healthy to me, sure of herself, confident and balanced. The kind of woman dressed impeccably who would still snort with laughter and refer to her boss, lovingly, as That bitch .

“I’ll tell her you’re here,” Sydney says, halting my psychoanalysis of her. She pulls back, turns and I catch her wrist.

“She working on the podcast?” I ask, and when Sydney nods, I drop her wrist and smile. “Mind if I sit in the control room?”

***

“You bitch ,” Sloane laughs, bursting into the sound room when she realizes I’ve been here for the entire show, watched the entire podcast recording process.

I spin around in my chair, grinning at her even as I start to feel dizzy. “You guys really like to throw that word around here, don’t you?”

“Did Syd call you a bitch?”

“No, but she called you one.”

Sloane waves, as though swatting a fly from the air. “What are you doing here?” she asks, sitting in the chair beside me, careful not to touch the control panel of knobs and dials. The woman who was in here, doing the sound tech, didn’t want to talk to me, which was fine. It was nice to sink into watching Sloane do her thing—seeing someone work who knew exactly what she wanted from her life.

I must be giving off I need to talk to you vibes, because Sloane’s eyes widen, then she stands and closes the door to the sound room, locking it dramatically.

“Sloane—” I start, laughing, but she cuts me off as she drops back into her chair, voice bordering on ecstatic as she leans forward, cheeks flushed.

“Did you and Grayson…?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows.

“What?” My voice is too shrill, I realize, and lower it, leveling my gaze at her. “No. We did not. I told you about why—”

Sloane shrugs mischievously. “Maybe he’s been studying?”

“ No ,” I insist, wishing my cheeks weren’t betraying me like this, flaming. “This is about the deal we made.”

“Right.” Sloane draws one of her knees up and wraps her arms around it, resting her chin on it. “You get to use him like a guinea pig, and he gets a little free counseling—”

“It’s not counseling, I’m not licensed.”

“Technicalities.” Sloane does that fly-swatting motion again. “So, what about it?”

“He’s not holding up his end of the bargain.” I cross my arms, realize that’s childish, then continue to sit like that anyway. It’s only Sloane. “I ask him questions, and it’s like…he’s not forthcoming with me. Most of the time, when I ask a question, he just asks one right back. It’s infuriating.”

Sloane chews on her lip, cutting her eyes away from mine.

“No, what?” I uncross my arms and sit up. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” she soothes, rubbing one hand up and down her shin. “It’s just that…you know how you are, Astrid. Very private. I think, for some people, that makes it difficult to really feel opened up with you.”

I know very private is the nice way of saying what she’s thinking, and I let out a sigh, running my finger along the chair’s armrest.

“Well, I think this angle, of the elite athlete’s mental health and coping strategies, might be what gets me a spot at a research place. From there, I can secure funding myself. But I need this. I just don’t know how to get him to open up to me.”

Sloane shrugs, looks up to the ceiling, then asks, thoughtfully, “Do you know how I got you to open up to me, Astrid?”

“Sheer determination,” I deadpan. “Consistent, sustained effort.”

“You’re saying I wore you down,” she laughs, wagging her finger. “But it was more strategic than that. Remember where I always talked to you?”

My brow furrows for a second. Then, I do remember. Catching me just after her hockey practice, and before I started my figure skating training. Asking me to teach her some low-level tricks, some spins and poses. Teasing me and giving me her stick, telling me to practice my shots. And, for some reason, swept up along in her charm, I did.

“On the ice,” I finally say, meeting her eyes, realizing the only reason I felt comfortable talking to her is because I was so comfortable out there.

Sloane’s eyes glint. “Yup. On the ice. And I’m willing to bet that’s where Grayson is most at ease, too.”

I stand, bite my tongue to keep from saying something corny, like, You’re a genius .

“Just compliment me,” Sloane teases, spinning around in her chair again. “It’s not going to hurt nearly as much as you think it will.”

“Oh, you’re such a bitch .”