Page 105 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
Mathieu is maybe two strides behind. Lucian, somewhere back, is narrating the whole thing to his Instagram stories. Jamie, who apparently has a second career in track and field, bursts ahead of all of us and yells as he charges in,“HOLD THE DOORS! LOVE IS COMING THROUGH!”
Security is a blur of shouting, apology, and me frantically miming a rush while yelling, “No bags! No liquids!”
Mathieu throws my passport at the agent like it was the final play of a championship and somehow, they let me through.
Now I’m sprinting toward the gate.
Gate B19. I see it.
A flight attendant is already lifting the gate phone. “We’re good to close?—”
I shout through pants, “One more. One more passenger!”
The woman blinks, startled, until I skid up to the counter.
“That’s me,” I gasp. “I’m—I’m the last passenger.”
She looks at me, a little stunned. I realize in this moment I must be absolutely soaked, curls dripping, shirt half-untucked. But she doesn’t flinch. In fact, she gives me a slow smile that says she knows exactly what’s going on.
“Let me guess,” she says. “There’s a girl. You want to stop her from making a terrible life decision.”
I nod. “Yes, but no,” I say. “I’m here to go with her.”
That gets me a smile. She lifts the phone and talks with a giggle in her voice. “Tell them at the gate we’ve got one more.” She scans my boarding pass. “Now go get her.”
She swings open the boarding door like it’s a portal to destiny.
I run.
Down the tunnel, lungs burning, my footsteps echo in the enclosed space.
“Marcy Fontaine, where are you!?”I yell, praying the acoustics are on my side. “Wait! I’m on this flight!”
At the other end of the tunnel, the door’s still cracked open. I catch the gate attendant’s voice over the radio: “Final passenger heading your way. Name’s Rivière.”
I nearly trip from the sheer relief.
The flight attendant at the plane entrance, an older woman with silver hair pulled back in a bun, is smiling when I reach her, hands braced on her hips like she’s been waiting her whole life to be part of this moment.
“Ah,” she says. “I think someone’s waiting for you.”
She waves me on.
This is it.
CHAPTER 41
MARCY
I’m hyperventilating into a paper bag like a Victorian maiden seeing her own ankle.
The elderly Frenchman beside me pats my shoulder with a hand that smells faintly of Camembert. “Tranquille, mademoiselle,” he says gently. “We have not even taken off yet.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not currently spiraling into a black hole of regret, heartbreak, and barely repressed romantic anxiety.
“I just…” I gasp. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I bought a last-minute ticket to Paris. I’m not ready. I’m still wearing my barn boots.”
He nods solemnly like that explains everything.
