Page 102 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
If she asked me to stay, even for a second—I would. But she hasn’t. And I can’t be the one to ask her to keep waiting for someone who might never be whole again.
Mathieu is across the room, sitting on the arm of Weston’s armchair, sipping coffee. He doesn’t say anything for a while. Just watches me in the way only someone who’s known you since childhood can.
“You’re waiting for her to call,” he says finally.
I scrub a hand through my hair. “I can’t stay, Mathieu.”
“Why not?”
“My body is telling me I can’t do this anymore. You saw me out there.”
“I saw a man playing through pain.”
“I saw a man about to ruin the only dream he’s ever had.”
He leans forward. “Clément, you are not your worst day and you’re not your stats. You’ve been there for me more times than I can count. After my breakup with you-know-who, which friend dragged me to the stupid jazz club every Thursday so I wouldn’t sit in my flat and eat pasta out of a pot?”
I give him a sideways look. “You still eat pasta out of a pot.”
“Sometimes. But now it’s by choice.”
I can’t help smiling.
He softens. “You’ve always been the one who makes people believe they can be more. More brave. More honest. I came to Maple Falls because I needed to be reminded of that. And I’ve seen it in you, with her, ever since you thought you were trying to win her over for fun. She’s always meant more. She brings out the man you truly are.”
The man I truly am.Integration.
I press my palms into my eyes. The tears are stupid. I’m too old to cry like this. But there they are. “It’s not fair. I finally meet someone who makes it all make sense, and now I have to go.”
Mathieu doesn’t rush to answer. Instead, he crouches in front of me with that same serious expression he wore when we lost our first youth championship in Lyon. “So don’t.”
My head snaps up. “It’s not that simple.”
“Maybe it is. You love her.”
I don’t answer.
He takes my phone gently from my hand and sets it onthe table. “You keep waiting for her to reach out. But maybe she’s waiting to see if you’ll fight for this.”
I close my eyes. It feels like there’s not enough air in this place.
“She believes in you, Clément,” he says softly. “What about you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just walks to the kitchen and starts pouring more coffee, humming a jazz tune under his breath. “Anyhow,” he goes on, “I think you’ll be able to answer that soon enough.”
That’s when there’s a knock at the door and I know something is up.
Weston struts out of the bedroom and doesn’t even check the peephole. Just opens it, muttering, “And so it begins.”
Lucian walks in first, carrying a brown paper bag that smells like takeout. “He eating?” he calls toward the kitchen.
“Not really,” Mathieu answers.
“I brought fries.” Lucian drops the bag on the table and flops into a chair. “Nothing fixes an existential crisis like carbs.”
Then comes Jamie, grinning wide. “Did I miss the bro-vention?”
“We’re still setting up,” Weston says, stepping aside as Carson enters.
“You all texted each other?” I ask as I start looking for an escape route.
