Page 32 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
I hate even more that I’m thinking about this while still replaying the look Clément gave me like that wave was filled with a lot more than a simple greeting.
My brain is supposed to be better than this.
He’s a hockey player. He’s temporary. He’s go-go-go.
I am not. I am spreadsheets and rules and systems. There is no cell in my planner labeledFeelings for the Frenchman.And if there was, I’d cross it out in permanent ink.
I sigh, tap the corner of the desk once, twice, and finally lean back.
He waved. That’s all it was. Just a wave.
Before I head to the emergency council meeting to ruin everyone’s day, I swing by the barn to check on the local hay bale casualty.
Scotty is sitting on an overturned bucket, wrapped in a fleece blanket with a coffee cup balanced precariously on his knee like a war hero on recovery leave. Edgar is chewing on the edge of his blanket, but Scotty doesn’t notice, or maybe he doesn’t care.
“You’re looking rough. Do you think this is pro hockey come back to bite you?” I ask, stepping around a pile of straw.
“Likely,” he sighs. “That’ll teach me to try to prove something to myself.”
“Right,” I say. “Because nothing says ‘peak masculinity’ like lifting compressed grass for an audience of one.”
“Two. Betsy was there too.”
He tips his head toward me with a grimace that might be a smile. “The core was strong. The discs were not.”
I hold out the pain killer and thermal pack I snagged from the first aid kit. He takes both with a grateful grunt.
“Clément filled in nicely,” he says before gulping down the painkillers with coffee. “The kids love him. Even Edgar was enamored. Must be that European glow.”
“I’m sorry, thewhat?”
He gestures vaguely, nearly sloshing coffee on himself. “You know. Tall. Handsome. That wholebonjour, I’m emotionally available but mysterious with an accentthing. You throw that in an NHL team in a small town and it’s lethal.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you suggesting Clément is lethal?”
Scotty gives me a grin that’s pure mischief. “Only to women with a pulse and penchant for croissants.”
“Oh, Scotty.” I walk off before I smile in front of him. That man is incorrigible when he gets on a dad joke rant.
Besides, I have an emergency council meeting to attend.
The walk to town hall takes all of twenty-four minutes, and I spend every one of them internally rehearsing my delivery like I’m prepping for a budget defense in a room full of investment sharks.
I head through the side entrance, where I’m greeted by the sound of an ancient copier whirring like it’s trying to summon spirits and the unmistakable scent of a coffee percolator in action.
Phillip Bane, a.k.a. Chief of Passive Aggression, looks up from his desk like I’ve personally insulted his mother by existing.
“Look who decided to come back,” he says.
“Hi, Phillip,” I say, already done with this conversation. “Still committed to that beard that doesn’t connect?”
The meeting room already has a few souls milling about. I’m here early, binder in hand, stomach tight. While I don’t technically have to be here, Ihad to be here. I’m the town accountant, but mostly I care deeply about what’s going to happen.
The council members trickle in slowly, murmuring greetings or complaints depending on how much coffee they’ve had. I nod, professional, even though my hair still smells like hay and I’ve got a smear of mud on my sleeve. Ashlyn’s already inside, talking to Troy Hart, the owner of the arena, and a man whose outfit screams hockey coach.
I scan the room. Some council members look concerned, others annoyed, and one or two are clearly hoping this will be over in time for the lottery numbers to be called. I glancedown at my notes—property details, legal precedents, a few ideas for fundraising—but my heart’s not in the numbers this time. I don’t want to just balance this budget. I want to save the town.
Ashlyn stands and starts explaining the situation. Shocked silence is all around us as she explains what’s happening.
