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Grayson

“Have you been reading that book?” Coach Vic asks, eyeing me as we walk into the arena together. I wish I could be walking next to anyone else, but he made sure to sit close to me on the plane too, like he thinks he might be able to infuse some of his positive energy into me just from close proximity.

Knowing Coach, it’s not that far out of what he might genuinely believe.

“Yep,” I lie. I haven’t been reading the book—since Astrid left, the only thing I’ve been doing is going through the motions. The girls can tell, my teammates can tell.

Up ahead, I catch the bob of Sloane’s golden ponytail and itch to ask her about Astrid. To make sure she went somewhere safe after our—was it a fight?—in the hotel room.

But of course she did. Apparently, the woman I’ve been seeing lost both of her parents, and that was the first time she felt comfortable telling me about it. Apparently, she’s been filthy rich this entire time, and I didn’t know.

And I blew it. More specifically, I blew everything up.

She hasn’t responded to a single one of my texts.

Tomorrow, we’re back home. But tonight, we have one more away game. And I don’t have a good feeling about how well I’m going to be able to perform.

An hour later, we’re on the ice warming up, and Maverick keeps sending me worried glances. I’m not missing every block, but I’m not on fire like I have been. It feels like all my fast-twitch muscle fibers have gone on vacation.

The game starts, the Rangers lining up across from us, the arena booming with fans chanting, singing, hollering, and spinning their noise makers. The ref drops the puck, and Luca angles hard for it, sending it immediately to Callum, and it enters play.

The puck zips across the ice, a black blur against white. I track it with my eyes, trying to shift my weight as it moves, feeling the pressure move from one skate to the other.

My heart hammers against my chest protector. Only five minutes into the first period, and I already feel like I’ve been out here for hours.

“Focus, O’Connor!” Coach hollers, and I wince—it’s not often he yells to us from the bench, and even less often that we can hear it. And if I heard it, that means everyone else on the team did, too.

I shift my stance, trying to find my center. Normally, that feeling comes to me naturally, honed after years and years of defending a goal, but right now, everything feels wrong. My pads too tight, my mask too close to my face. Every breath I take feels shallow, like it’s not quite filling my lungs.

The Rangers gain control of the puck, the center heading down the ice and straight toward me. Maverick moves to cut him off, but a quick pass to the winger opens up space. I drop into my stance, trying to track the play, but they’re all moving a fraction faster than I’m able to process right now.

When the shot comes, I’m a split second too late.

The puck glances off my blocker, then slowly slides behind me. I lunge backward, sweeping my stick desperately across the crease, but I’m too slow, and it’s too late.

The red-light flashes, the horn blares, and the Ranger crowd erupts into cheering.

A goal on the first fucking shot of the game.

“Shake it off, O’Connor,” Luca says, skating past me and tapping his stick against my pads. “We’ll get it back—just get your head in the game, alright?”

“Alright,” I answer, lamely.

I can’t shake it off. I can’t shake anything off—the only thing I can think about is Astrid scrambling out of that hotel room like it was on fire last night. The lawyer on the phone, talking about custody of the girls. The tone of Athena’s voice when I told her that she would be spending another night with Savannah, because I had yet another away game to play.

After the following face-off, the Rangers maintain pressure in our zone. I make a routine save on a shot, but fumble on the rebound, watching as the puck bounces dangerously in the crease before Maverick manages to clear it.

“Freeze it!” Luca shouts, and while his tone isn’t unkind, I can’t help the feeling of shame that’s already rooting inside my chest. Sweat pools beneath my mask, and I have to focus on taking a couple of deep breaths.

Play goes on, and during the TV timeout, I skate to the bench to refill my water. My legs are heavy, my movements mechanical. My body isn’t responding to me but acting like a free agent doing whatever the hell it wants.

“You’re thinking too much,” Coach says, leaning over the boards. “Just play .” After several times up and down the ice, the Ranger’s star forward breaks loose with the puck. I come out to challenge, but I get the angle wrong. I’m too deep in the crease, and when I drop to butterfly, my weight shifts awkwardly to the side.

The puck sails over my right shoulder and into the net.

I have to get my shit together, and fast—I can feel Coach’s eyes on me, and know that he’s already wondering if he should pull me, put Martinez in instead.

Then the reality hits me—I miss Astrid. She would know what to say right now, some trick that would help me shake out of this.

At first, thinking about her just makes me feel worse, but then I think about hiking together, being at the farmer's market. All those coping mechanisms I could use to stave off the anxiety, to make it through an attack, to keep one from coming on in the first place.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I suck in a breath and think about eating chili at the table with Astrid and the girls. A happy place.

When I open my eyes, my body feels steady, my mind clearer. It’s working.

I grip my stick and hope Astrid is watching this game right now, because it would give her a hell of a lot of information for her case study.