Page 28 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
He’s out near the paddock, surrounded by hay bales and children climbing them like miniature sherpas scaling Mount Rainier. Clément’s shirt is already stained and his forearms are dusted with straw. He’s crouching down, talking to a little boy in oversized overalls, gesturing with both hands like he’s narrating a French fable. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but the kids are rapt.
That is, until Edgar the goat starts chewing on his shirt.
“Non, non, non—s’il te plaît,” Clément says, swatting behind him with zero success. Edgar dodges the hand and doubles down, tugging the fabric. Clément turns around and takes Edgar’s face in his hands. He crouches down and murmurs something I can’t hear, but good golly, Edgar just nudged Clément’s cheek with his muzzle and strolled away.
Clément is a goat whisperer.
I cross the field and hold out the glass. “Peace offering.”
He stands and takes it gratefully, shirt slightly askew.
“You read my mind,” he says, raising the glass in a mock toast before taking a huge swig. His face freezes mid-sip. “It’s… amazing,” he says, with a wide smile and touch of a milk mustache.
“Compliments of Betsy,” I say, nodding toward the barn.
Betsy, our pride and joy, is a big milk cow with a sway to her hips and eyelashes that would make a supermodel weep. She’s mid-munch when she hears her name, then stops, chewing slowly as she lifts her massive head to stare directly at Clément.
“Is she…” he narrows his eyes, “winking at me?”
I squint. “It’s possible. She’s been known to get flirty with volunteers.”
“She has taste.”
“Mostly in salt licks and stolen granola bars.”
Betsy licks her nose and gives Clément a slow blink that might in fact be suggestive. He backs away a step.
“I don’t want to be forward,” he says, “but I think she’s into me. Should I be worried?”
“Depends. Are you into long-distance relationships with ruminants?”
“I’m more of a ‘fall for the woman who shows up with milk and judgment’ kind of guy.”
I laugh, for no good reason than it was an automatic reaction. Clément looks a little too pleased with himself.
“Well,” I say, nodding toward the next stack of hay bales, “you’re doing a good job. And Edgar hasn’t chewed through your shirt entirely, so, ten out of ten.”
“Merci,” he says, mock-bowing slightly. “Should I reward myself with more mystery milk?”
“Only if you want Betsy to propose.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Would that make you jealous?”
Palpitations.
“Anyway, thanks, and there’s more milk in the fridge. It’s very nutrient rich,” I say, spinning on my heel and walking off toward the cider booth, pretending I’m extremely invested in the inventory of plastic cups.
Behind me, I hear him laugh again.
CHAPTER 10
CLÉMENT
Icheck my watch again.
Practice is in ninety minutes. That gives me maybe fifteen more before I need to find my helmet, scrub goat scent out of my pores, and pretend I didn’t spend the lunch hour being climbed on like a jungle gym by children and livestock.
I’ve got to be on time because I amnotcleaning that ice bathever again.
