Page 16 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“Tell her you love her! Americans love a French accent!”
“Shut up!”
I slap the phone off, grab my duffel, and bolt out the door, tripping over a coil of extension cord on the way and showering myself in dust, again.
Late, to the very first practice of the newly-turned-pro Ice Breakers. I am never going to hear the end of this.
The second my blades hit the ice, a whistle blows and everything stops.
I mean everything.
No pucks, passes. Or shouting. Just twelve grown men in full hockey gear standing like statues, watching me glide in like a very guilty goalie.
“Well, well, look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Coach Dale calls. His voice echoes like we’re in a cathedral and I sneezed during mass. “Did your baguette take too long to toast, Rivière?”
Snickers ripple across the rink.
I skate faster, ducking my head, trying to blend in with the boards. Not easy when you're wearing bright white goalie pads and carrying a stick the size of a canoe paddle.
“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter as I reach the crease. “Alarm didn’t go off.”
Coach isn’t done. “Since you clearly needed the extra rest,” he says, eyes gleaming, “you can do a little extra work after practice. The ice bath needs cleaning. And by cleaning, I meanscrubbing. With a toothbrush.”
Groans from a few. Laughter from everyone else.
“That thing’s a biohazard,” one of the guys says.
“Pretty sure something in thereblinkedat me,” another adds.
I try to smirk. “My pleasure, Coach.”
“Do notsay that in a French accent,” he snaps.
More laughter.
I drop into the butterfly position just to feel grounded. The net is mine.
I can handle their chirping. The toothbrush duty? I’ll survive. Probably.
The room with the ice bath smells like bleach and at least three protein shake spills that were never properly addressed.
I’m on my knees, scrubbing a glob that might be mold or might be the beginning of a sentient life form, when the door creaks open and I hear Weston’s voice. Weston is my neighbor in the condo complex I’m renting while the house tries to kill me with splinters. He’s a defenseman with the energy of a Labrador retriever who just discovered coffee. Behind him is Lucian, a fellow defenseman I just recently met.
“Well, well,” he says, “if it isn’t our Parisian prince, brought low by his own tardiness.”
I don’t look up. “You’re jealous of my natural elegance.”
“I’m jealous you get to bond with mildew while the rest of us hit the showers. Clément, meet Lucian,” Weston says. “You know he came up from Carolina. Known for two things: the fix-it flip and knowing how to use a torque wrench.”
So that’s why he’s got that calm, I-fix-my-own-plumbing energy.
Lucian gives me a nod. He has the quiet confidence of a guy who could rebuild your bathroom, but will silently judge you if you ask him to hand you the wrong screwdriver.
“Sorry about your penance,” Lucian says, eyeing the scrub brush in my hand.
I wipe sweat off my forehead with the clean part of my wrist. “It is humbling.”
“It is disgusting,” Weston offers helpfully. “The last guy who got this duty developed a mysterious rash and started seeing spiders that weren’t there.”
