Page 18

Grayson

I’m definitely going to throw up.

“Don’t throw up,” Callum says, skating up and clapping me on the shoulder, as though I’ve announced news about the state of my roiling gut to the entire team.

Maybe my shaking hands and pale face are enough to give me away.

“Yeah,” Maverick says, laughing and pulling his helmet on. “I’m a sympathetic vomiter.”

“Not helping,” I laugh weakly, and Luca claps his hand on my other shoulder.

“You’ve got it, man.” Luca slows down, looking me in the eyes. “You’ve got it—this is just another pre-season game, right?”

“Right.”

We skate out onto the ice, and they drop the puck to start the game. I keep my eye on the play, shift to keep my body centered, do everything I can to keep my mind on the game at hand.

Luca takes the puck. He and Callum trade it back and forth, working their magic as usual. I wiggle my fingers in my gloves.

Friday night, Callie came home and declared that she would be dropping out of school, which made Athena declare that she would be doing the same. When Callie turned and informed her sister that she could not, actually, also drop out of school—well, that sent Athena into a fit of hysterics.

We’d gone three whole nights without a crying fit, and I’d foolishly started to think that it might be behind us.

“Eyes up!”

I snap out of the thoughts, heat flushing my face as Maverick skates by, saving my ass by deflecting a puck. It’s only a pre-season game, but it’s my chance to show Coach Vic that I deserve to be out here on the ice. I clear my throat, fix my positioning, keep my eye on the puck as it moves back down the ice, shifting away from me, trading hands but not coming this way.

I worry at my jersey, rolling the fabric between my gloved hands. I worry about the girls with the babysitter right now, worry if they’re behaving. If the babysitter is handling it. If they’re going to eat the pizza when it comes, or claim—suddenly—that they don’t like it, like they’ve been doing a lot lately. If we go to a restaurant, they’ll pick the food, wait for it to come to the table, then decide it’s disgusting, and they don’t want it.

Astrid said it’s normal, that it might be a sign they feel out of control. A lot of times, kids only have control over what they eat. And being picky is a way to exert control over their bodies when it feels gone. I worry about them not eating enough, worry that I’m fucking everything up.

I worry about the way Coach is looking at me right now, like I’m falling apart right in front of him. I straighten up my posture, keep my stick in position.

But, most embarrassingly, I worry about all the information I’ve gathered over the week.

My ex-girlfriends were happy to hear from me. They liked me, and most of us split up because of life, not because we had some fight. I never cheated on a single one of them, never crossed their boundaries. And they never had a single complaint about me.

But, apparently, every single one of them was disappointed in our sex life.

Hailey: We were so young, Gray. Everyone is like that freshman year. How’s your mom doing?

Diana: You really, really want me to be honest? Then, yeah, that was the worst part of dating you, but you made up for it with the flowers. My bf now never gets me flowers.

Penelope: There are a lot of things I miss about you, but sex isn’t one of them XD sorry, is that too harsh?

“You’re out, O’Connor.”

I straighten, blinking at Martinez as he comes on the ice, a strange look on his face.

“What?”

He grimaces at me, “Coach said you’re out…he wants to give me some time during the pre-season.”

I have the feeling Martinez added that last bit to make me feel better. If anything, Coach would want me to get more time on the ice to work through this.

But it’s not Martinez’s fault, so I just clap him on the shoulder and skate off the ice. Coach is waiting for me, having ducked out of the bench area.

“O’Connor!” Coach meets me, and I stand next to him, sucking down water. He eyes me, like he thinks if he stares at me long enough, he can see right into my mind. If I could, I’d open it up for him, let him tinker around inside.

“You have to get your head in the game, son,” he says.

I tip the helmet up and off my face so I can breathe. “I know, Coach.”

He pauses, thinks for a moment, then says, “I’ll put you back in for the third period.”

Anticipation grows as I watch Martinez out on the ice. He gets an easy save, pulls it around behind the goal and kicks it out to Luca, who skates it down and takes a quick shot at the goal.

I can already hear people talking about how I was pulled from the pre-season game. It would have been better if Coach Vic had just started Martinez in the beginning.

Four minutes go by before the end of the period, and I go back in, determined to keep my head in the game this time. Martinez returns to his spot in the tunnel, passing me as I skate back onto the ice.

The puck buzzes near me the second I’m in, Maverick fighting for the puck inches from me. I butterfly, blocking the side of the goal, eyes on the puck, following it like my life depends on it. It cracks against my pad and bounces away.

Maverick scoops it out, skates it to the center rink, fires it over to Callum, who gets a slap shot right past the other goalie, and deep into the net.

We’re on the board first.

Three minutes later, Tampa Bay brings it down the ice, and I track the puck, watching, diving when the forward swings around and tries to slap it in.

I block it, feeling the hard crack of the puck against the bar behind me. Scrabbling over the ice, I grab it with my glove, making sure the play is over.

We hold a two-point lead into the third period, but the Lightning starts out by scoring quick, bringing them closer than we’d like. Tampa Bay only gets one shot off before the game is done, and I barely manage to block it. The relief from my teammates is palpable, and I don’t feel proud about the save.

A weird sense of dread settles in my stomach. Am I supposed to be proud of myself for doing the bare minimum? Proud of the fact that Coach removed me, only to put me back?

Am I supposed to celebrate just doing my fucking job?

The guys hoot and holler in the locker room, even Luca taking part in the celebrations. I go through the motions, showering and dressing, smiling at them when they smile at me.

“Great job, O’Connor,” Maverick says, clapping me on the back, and I only manage to give him a nod.

Tyler Chen slides up next to me, his phone held loosely in his hand. “You coming to Hazards with us? We’ve already got a VIP section.”

“Nah,” I wave my hand at him. I’m twenty-four years old, and I have two kids waiting for me at home. “You guys have fun, though.”

The drive home is quiet. I keep the radio off, thinking. I have much, much bigger things to worry about, but what keeps returning to my head is the image of Astrid on the ice, looking up at me, looking pained.

“The sex just…wasn’t for me.”

A shudder runs down my back, a round of secondhand embarrassment for myself. When she called on Monday, I’d had the stupid thought that she could be taking it back, changing her mind.

I’d been just as grateful when she needed me to jump her vehicle.

The last thing I wanted was for things to get weird between us, and I think my nonchalance worked. Based on that performance, Astrid probably thinks nothing of the interaction. That any guy can be told he sucks in bed and be totally fine with it.

When I pull into the driveway outside my house, it’s like I can already tell that something’s off. I’d told the babysitter I’d be home by eleven, and it’s only ten fifty, so it should be fine, but there’s a definite feeling that something is wrong.

I open the front door, glancing around, my heart beating double-time. The entry way looks normal—no broken glass, no fire alarm going off. I glance into the kitchen, find it sparkling clean, not a single thing out of place.

Strangely, there’s not even the sound of Athena crying, a sound that’s become something of a background track in this house.

“Hello?”

“Mr. O’Connor!” The babysitter appears around the corner as though from thin air, a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

She’s a local college student I found on a babysitting app. With years of experience, a sweet face, and a CPR certification, I figured she’d be a good choice. Young enough that Callie and Athena might think of her as fun.

The moment hits me as being particularly odd—this girl can’t be more than two or three years younger than me, but I’m Mr. O’Connor. The adult. The man in charge of children. It makes the room around me sway a bit, but I pull it together—there’s an emergency I need to attend to.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Callie,” she says, and somehow, I knew it was going to be Callie.

“Where’s Athena?” I ask, glancing around, not seeing her in the living room.

The babysitter waves her hand, like Athena is the easy one. “She fell asleep while we were watching movies. Everything was going fine, but then Callie went to the bathroom. It was…a long time. I went to check on her and it was like…” Her face goes pale, and I can practically see the flashback working through her head. “It was like a switch flipped. She won’t come out. All she does is scream at me—I have no idea what happened. Is she sick?”

“I’m…not sure. I don’t think so, but—”

“Did she hurt herself?”

The babysitter’s face goes even paler. “I don’t think so—I’m sorry, this has never happened before—”

“It’s alright,” I say, already moving forward, toward the steps. “You can head home, then.”

The babysitter comes to the landing, looking up at me, her coat in her hand. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll Venmo you later. Text me if I forget, okay?”

I don’t know what Callie is doing in the bathroom, but I can’t waste time thinking about it. Astrid’s warning about paying close attention to her comes to mind, and panic streaks through me.

What would I do if Callie was in there, harming herself?

When I get to the top of the stairs, I have my phone out, dialing the number of the only person Callie might talk to right now.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” I croak. “Sorry to bother you. It’s Callie—”

Astrid doesn’t hesitate, and I hear shifting on the other end of the line. “I’m grabbing my keys—text me the address.”