Page 6

Grayson

Back in college, when I first started getting anxiety attacks, Josh was the one who helped me through them. He was a history major, and not even remotely qualified, but if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was research.

Calmly, after witnessing me in the middle of one after practice one day, he said, “Do you know the difference between an anxiety attack and a panic attack, O’Connor?”

We were the only two in the gym, but it still felt weird to be talking about that stuff, so I’d just glanced back at him, leaving myself open to plausible deniability in case the other guys overheard.

“An anxiety attack builds slowly, usually accompanied by nausea and shaking. Panic attacks come out of nowhere, and often make the person experiencing them feel like they’re dying the first time it happens. Rapidly beating heart, difficulty breathing. That kind of thing.”

For the rest of the semester, Josh was like that. Never outright admitting that he knew what was going on with me, but quietly offering support. At one point, I opened my backpack to find a pamphlet for the university’s counseling services.

And so, I made an appointment. When I talked to someone about what I was feeling, I got better. By the time I graduated, the anxiety felt like something that had come and gone with my college experience.

But now it’s back.

Hands shaking, nausea rising and falling in my stomach like a sour, sticky mass, I turn the corner toward the locker room, praying nobody is around. Together, the nausea and anxiety create a closed loop. I’m anxious, and so I feel sick. I feel sick, and so my anxiety increases.

I’ve only been back in Milwaukee for three days. In that time, I’ve rushed to try and prepare my house as best I could, walking up and down the aisles in the grocery store, eyes glazing over at the options.

Living alone for so long, I had a pretty good routine down. Chipotle for lunch each day. Pad Thai on Wednesdays, pizza on Fridays, then cook up a huge batch of chili on Sundays. It’s the only thing I know how to make—if dumping can after can into the Crockpot actually counts as cooking—and it lasts me the whole week.

Plus, the smell of chili cooking on a Sunday takes me back to being a kid, watching my dad do the same thing. Mom coming home from the store, arms laden with bags. Filling the stove with jalapeno poppers and barbecue chicken bites. My family didn’t care much for hockey—my dad was a huge NFL guy. Sundays were sacred, and not because we went to church.

The anxiety is ratcheting up—I can tell from the way my thoughts are wondering, split between here and now, and the past, my childhood rushing up to meet me like the ice does when I dive to block a puck.

I’ve been on the ice all morning, trying to work through all the nervous energy inside me. Right now, I’m supposed to be getting dressed, heading to the airport, and picking up the two girls who are coming to live with me. Girls I barely know.

Girls who, just a few days ago, were told they’d be coming to live with me. The lawyer informed me that the cost of the tickets would come out of their trust funds, which would be available for school fees and other approved expenses. They’ll be flying as unaccompanied minors, on an airplane, just the two of them, chaperons from the airline guiding them and checking in.

I know nothing about taking care of kids, and the possibilities flood through my head, endless waves crashing through and pulling me under before I have a chance to resurface for air.

Distantly, I can feel the world around me, but it’s like it’s through water. The feeling of the wall against my back. The smell of the arena, the hazy, constant scent of beer and food, that clean smell of the rink. Metal on ice.

Thinking of the rink calms me for a second, until I think about skates, and how dangerous they are. People have died after being hit with a stray skate. Would it be unsafe for me to take the girls skating?

What if they get hurt? What if I had no idea how to help them? What if one of their allergies isn’t listed in the documents? What if they both hate me? What if they set the house on fire and I can’t get them out in time?

“Grayson?”

I blink, realizing I must have sat down at some point, because I’m against the wall, still in my goalie gear, breathing hard, helmet discarded next to me. Three faces peer down at me—Callum, Sloane, and—

“Astrid?” I answer, mouth feeling gummy.

Surely, I’m imagining her right now. She kneels down, brows furrowing as she looks at me, her hands finding mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Everything okay, Grayson?” she asks.

“I’ll call the trainer,” Sloane says, breathless and panicked, but Astrid holds her hand up, shaking her head.

“No, that’s—are you hurt, Grayson?”

I shake my head, still breathing hard. I once again bring my hand up to rub at my chest, but I hit the hard material of my gear before I touch skin. My other hand stays locked in hers. I think of Mrs. Welch, of the way her hands felt in that office. Astrid’s are nothing like that—small, yes, but strong. Capable. Her skin is soft and tanned.

It comes to me that she’s living in California. That’s where she flew back to after the wedding. So, what is she doing here now? How long has she been in Milwaukee?

“You know any breathing exercises?” Astrid asks, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something warm and earthy, a little sweet. Her voice is soft, so quiet I know I’m the only one who can hear her. Sloane and Callum stand a ways off, glancing over at me nervously.

Astrid squeezes my hand, re-directing my attention to her.

The rush of the wedding washes through my head—her, so beautiful in her rose blush gown, the way her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders. The touch of her skin to mine.

“I’m all good,” I say. The sudden introduction of other people is lessening the anxiety. Slightly. Just enough that I offer the three of them a terse smile and get to my feet.

My hands are shaking, and my throat feels like a tennis ball, but I work through it, winding my fingers together and meeting each of their gazes. After an anxiety attack, I sometimes feel like I’ve just finished a triathlon. Exhausted and spent, worn out and soaking wet, every muscle in my body trembling from the effort.

“Sorry,” I choke, feeling like an alternate version of myself. “I—uh, well, I’m supposed to pick up the girls today.”

Callum called the other day to ask me about why I’d left Jameson’s so quickly. I was in the airport, waiting for my flight out to Denver, and told him about what happened. He was quiet for a long time, then said he had no idea that I’d even lost someone.

“Shit,” Callum says, now shaking his head. “I knew that, didn’t I? You want a hand?”

“Oh,” I laugh, taking a step back. Just a week ago, he invited me to come have a beer with him for the first time, and now I’m already dragging him into my personal shit? “No, that’s—”

“Listen, man,” Callum steps forward, waving backward at Sloane and ushering me toward the locker room. “We’re family, you know? I want to be there for you. Can I come with you today? Or help you with anything else?”

He looks so earnest, I feel myself loosening.

“Actually…” I sigh, hauling my pads from my shoulders and meeting his eyes. “Yeah. If you can—it might actually be helpful to have another pair of hands on deck. I just need to shower, and we can go.”

Callum slaps me on the shoulder and turns back to talk to Sloane. I don’t mean to, but I look in that direction too, my gaze catching on Astrid’s.

She’s looking back at me carefully, studying me, and I feel the warmth spreading from my toes up to my hairline. I want to get her alone again, ask her why, exactly, she took off from that guest room, and left Ireland completely without even saying goodbye.

I’ll be disappointed if I find out she’s just not interested in a relationship—if that’s the reason she left. I can handle the disappointment, though. It would be much better than the uncertainty.

Though only a second has passed, it feels like longer, and Astrid is still holding my gaze, brow furrowed, like she’s thinking. I want to ask her, but I don’t have time.

My eyes dart up to the clock on the wall—I’ll have to find her later. Right now, I have to get to the airport on time to pick up my new roommates.