Page 27 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
This man is bad for my health.
Outside, a rooster crows, and someone yells, “Well, if I ever saw a cowlickin’ smudgefest!” That is definitely not Angel’s voice.
There’s only one guy at the ranch who talks that way. Still barefoot, I cross the room in my long cotton nightgown and swing open the cabin door.
The air bites at my legs, but I barely feel it. Scotty is lying flat on his back in the middle of the barn entrance, surrounded by a halo of straw and spilled grain. One hand’s gripping his lower back, and the other is clenched into a fist like he’s preparing to go down with honor.
“Scotty?” I call, already moving. “What happened?”
He twists his head toward me, jaw tight. “Hey, Marcy. Just hanging out.”
I stop beside him, crouching down. “Uh-huh. Because lying down in the barn aisle at dawn is what all the cool kids are doing now?”
He flashes a quick, teeth-clenched smile. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.”
“I was moving one of the big hay bales to the paddock for today’s petting zoo. Got cocky. Then my back wentpoplike popcorn. I’m fine. It’s no big—ahhh—thing.”
The last word comes out through gritted teeth and very obvious pain.
“Scotty, you’re literally not moving.”
“Exactly. Very still. Very mindful.”
Before I can say more, three sets of boots thump against the gravel path. Lily and Andy rush over with Lisette close behind, still in their pajamas with rubber boots.
“Dad!” Lily gasps, dropping to her knees beside him.
Andy stands over him. “Did you break something?”
“I’m fine,” Scotty says for the third time as Lisette snuggles into his chest.
“Where’s Angel?” I ask.
“Farmers’ Market,” Andy says. “She left early to get the good tomatoes and maybe a squash that’s shaped like a duck for the petting zoo.”
“Of course she did,” I murmur.
Lily is patting her dad’s arm.
“I can’t be out of commission,” Scotty says. “I’m the only one who can move these bales and set up the outdoor pens before folks start arriving at noon.”
Fortunately—or unfortunately—I know exactly who to call.
Clément shows up in less than an hour and Happy Horizons is already a controlled mess.
Controlled, because I have six labeled clipboards and an army of color-coded task lists for today’s zoo.
A mess, because no matter how well I plan, the sense that Clément is out there somewhere is completely destabilizing.
There’s a low hum of excitement across the grounds—laughter, tables getting set up, hay scattered everywhere like confetti thrown by a restless farmer. By lunchtime, families from all over the county will be here for the fall petting zoo fundraiser. Angel’s brilliant idea, my logistical nightmare.
I’ve been elbow-deep in preparations and doing an excellent job of staying far away from one French hockey player turned hay-hauling volunteer. Until I hear him laugh.
It carries across the entire ranch. Deep enough to feel in my spine. I don’twantto smile, but my mouth has other plans. I clamp it shut and focus on getting milk.
Fresh milk is our usual offering to volunteers. It’s not like I’m doing anything special. I pour a big glass from the barn fridge for Clément, because the way he has been working non-stop deserves at least a glass of milk.
