Page 39 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
CLÉMENT
Ituck in my shirt for the third time before climbing off the bike, swearing softly in French as the bandage on my palm shifts.
It’s nothing, just a kiss from my own hammer. Again. I was fixing the doorframe in the kitchen this morning, dreaming about the crown molding I’ll probably never get up, when I saw her in my mind—Marcy, curled up with a book under the window I haven’t finished sanding yet—and that’s when the hammer reminded me to concentrate.
So now I have a bruise on my ego and a hand that smells faintly of antiseptic.
The house is my dream project. Hockey is still my purpose.
But Marcy is the one I never planned for. The one that sneaked under my skin and started rearranging my priorities when I wasn’t looking.
Blue and white spotlights fan the sky in wide arcs as I walk up to the arena. Fortunately, the rain cleared, becauseshowing up soggy to an inaugural bash was never a good look.
There are newly strung icicle lights and a shimmering banner that readsIce Breakers Inaugural Bash – Welcome to Maple Falls.Outside, a red carpet flanked by hay bales and seasonal mums leads guests toward the entrance, where the distant pulse of jazz hints that this night is going to be anything but ordinary. I adjust my collar, try to flatten my hair, and step toward the doors.
The place is full inside. Everyone in Maple Falls must be here, and if the population is ten thousand, I’m guessing nine thousand are in this lobby alone.
The chandelier above me is a monster of glass, probably visible from space.
I spot my teammates near the champagne tower. Weston’s in a navy suit he’s definitely rented. Lucian’s already removed his tie and unbuttoned two buttons like we’re in a 1970s crime drama. They see me and nod, subtle and cool.
I’m not subtle. I’m still rubbing my hand and searching the crowd for one woman.
I tell myself I’m just being polite, but if she walks through those doors, I might forget how to speak entirely.
“Oh la la,” I mutter. “Where did they find that chandelier? It could crush a man.”
“Probably has,” Weston says, appearing at my shoulder with a flute of champagne. “So, lover boy who skipped the Drench. You planning to keep standing in the middle of the room like a statue or are you gonna circulate like a person?”
Lucian joins us on the other side, all long limbs and effortless swagger. “He’s scanning for the ranch accountant he’s so intent on winning over,” he says, already smirking. “Saw it the second we walked in.”
I scowl. “I am not scanning. I am observing.”
Weston lifts a brow. “Observing with your mouth slightly open.”
“I am also breathing,” I say. “Very normal human function.”
He ignores me and reaches up to adjust my bow tie, which I hadn’t realized was crooked until he yanks it tighter.
“I’m more accustomed to a cravat,” I say, brushing his hands away. “This...ribbonaround my throat feels like a fashion noose.”
“Welcome to America,mon ami,” Lucian says, clinking his glass against mine. “Where we dress up like we’re going to prom, but still serve meatballs on toothpicks.”
Which reminds me, I haven’t eaten.
We migrate toward the buffet table, which, from a distance, had appeared promising. Up close, it’s more of a disappointment. Delicate stacks of cucumber on smaller-than-average crackers. Tiny skewers of things that are allegedly food but resemble modern art sculptures.
“Do I need tweezers for this?” I ask, poking at a truffle puff that could comfortably fit inside a contact lens case.
“Like expensive air,” Weston mutters.
Lucian grabs one, shrugs, and pops it in his mouth. “Tastes like something my dad would serve.”
Weston scans the room. “Where’s the real food?”
Then I see it.
Across the room, slightly off-center but commanding attention with its own sort of glory, is a side table stacked with cupcakes. They look like little miracles, frosted with perfect swirls of deep blue and white, each topped with the Ice Breakers logo in edible silver.
