Page 22 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“The Ice Breakers.”
CHAPTER 8
CLÉMENT
Icannot believe my luck.
Marcy Fontaine. Inmyhouse.
Okay, it’s a house-shaped disaster zone with exposed insulation and one functioning light fixture, but still. She’s here. In my space. Smoldering, damp, and still somehow elegant in the folding chair I found in the basement.
She’s flushed, out of breath, and muttering to herself. I’ve never seen anyone so captivating while falling apart.
She shakes her head like she’s trying to reboot. “No, no, no, no,no.”
I tilt my head and wonder where that single glass is. I think she needs water. “Are you okay?”
She looks up. “Oh, I’mfine,” she says, in a voice that is neither calm nor convincing. “Perfectly fine. Just peachy. I mean, who doesn’t love being carried off the street like a damsel in distress by a shirtless goalie?”
“Technically,” I say, holding back a grin, “you were folded like a pretzel and asking the sidewalk for medical advice.”
She shoots me a glare so sharp it could deglaze a pan. “I wasmanaging.”
“Of course,” I say, raising both hands in surrender. “You were exuding composure. The skirt smelling like coffee and winded gasping only enhanced themystique.”
“I wasn’t gasping.”
“You were whispering sweet nothings to your spleen.”
She makes a noise that’s somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, and for a second, I think she might smile.
But then she narrows her eyes, tilts her head slightly, and the temperature in the room drops by three degrees.
“You don’t get to be charming about this,” she says.
“I wasn’t trying to be?—”
“You weredefinitelytrying to be.”
Okay. Fair.
I scrub a hand through my hair. “Look, I didn’t plan to be shirtless when you arrived. I was working shirtless. It’s not my lifestyle.”
“Sure.” She closes her eyes, unimpressed. And yet—her foot is still twitching in that way people do when they’re tryingnotto bolt. I’m missing something.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” I say, more sincerely now. “You came running down the street, then collapsed in pain. I panicked. I’m not exactly used to women in agony showing up at my windows.”
“It happens.” She sighs and folds her arms. Then her gaze darts briefly to the floor, then to the ceiling—anywherebut my face.
And now I’m officially confused.
I stare. “What did I miss?”
She looks at me for a long moment, like she’s weighing whether I’m worth the explanation.
“Let’s just say,” she mutters, “I have a very specific policy about hockey players.”
I wait a second, wondering what I’m missing. “But I am a hockey player.”
