Page 13 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“Edgar’s winning!”
I chase the goat across the gravel, dodging hay bales and garden tools as the kids hoot and holler like I’m running a touchdown instead of chasing livestock for paperwork.
This is my life now. This is Maple Falls.
And even on days like today—especially on days like today—I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
I’ve got to help save this town.
CHAPTER 6
CLÉMENT
Icame to Maple Falls to play hockey.
So why am I holding a hammer that looks older than my grandmother’s croque-monsieur pan, standing in a doorway that sags with despair?
Because apparently, dreams are complicated.
Back home, I played forLes Lions de Paris, a team full of style, strategy, and ego. It was all press conferences and traffic and overpriced coffee in places with names likeL’Atelier du Sport.
But I always had this idea—maybe from too many American movies, maybe from my grandmother’s vintageBetter Homes & Gardenscollection—that American small towns were different.Simpler. A place where I could breathe.
Most NHL teams are based in big cities, which kind of kills the fantasy. But the Ice Breakers are a big league team bringing life to a small town.
It was a perfect mix.
The thing is, this house is nowhere near livable. Thekitchen floor tilts east, the water smells like old pennies, and last night I found a wasp the size of a kiwi in the attic.
But the charm could kill. Perhaps literally if I don’t get this building permit soon.
This house has more character than most French villas. There’s a sunroom with stained glass, floorboards that creak like they’re telling secrets, and a little brass keyhole on the upstairs bedroom door that I’m pretty sure unlocks another dimension.
I love it. I also have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.
Case in point: I’ve been trying to reattach a doorframe for forty minutes, and I’m starting to suspect that the “level” I bought is either broken or possessed. The bubble keeps sliding off-center like it’s mocking me.
“Stay,” I mutter, tapping the level gently against the wood. “That’s all I ask.S’il vous plaît.”
The level slides again. I adjust the doorframe. Tap. Re-check.
Still crooked.
I hammer a nail into place just to feel like I’ve accomplished something—and promptly hit my thumb.
“GAH!Mince!” I shout, flinging the hammer across the room. It lands in a pile of what I’m calling insulation and what might actually be haunted hay.
I stick my thumb in my mouth, sulking like a kid who got benched in peewee league.
This was supposed to be my sanctuary. Myfresh start.
And now I’m bleeding in a grumpy house with a temperamental level and no permit.
Worse, I’m still thinking abouther.
My phone rings just as I’m seriously considering the possibility that I might not be able to move in time before I’mkicked out of the rental condo. I dig the phone out of my back pocket and squint at the screen.
Mathieu B.
