Page 51 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“Weston Smith!”
“Lucian Lowe!”
“Carson Crane!”
The announcer continues. People are standing, waving flags, throwing up peace signs, fist-pumping. Confetti is falling from somewhere. Or maybe I’m imagining it. I’m not totally convinced I haven’t disassociated.
And still… no sign of Clément.
Is he even playing?
I straighten my skirt for the fifth time. It wasn’t even wrinkled to begin with. My fingers go to my hair. Tuck behind one ear. Then the other. Again. The same strands.
I tell myself I’m just warm. Or over-caffeinated.
Then—
“And in goal tonight, wearing number ninety-five… Clément Rivière!”
The crowd loses it again.
“Hey Frenchie, stop those pucks!” a man booms and a woman screeches, “Je t’aime, Frenchie!”
My French is not awesome, but even I know what that means.
Quite suddenly, I realize I’m not the only one who’s noticed the Frenchman with the ridiculous charm.
I swallow hard and watch as he skates into the light.
CHAPTER 18
CLÉMENT
The hallway is narrow, colder than usual, echoing faintly with each cheer from the crowd. I hear the announcer calling names—Jamie, Cade, Weston—and each one is met with another roar, another quake in the floor beneath my skates.
I’m the last, always. Goalie enters at the end, like punctuation. The full stop before the game begins.
I like it that way. It gives me time.
I reach into the inner pocket of my jersey and run my fingers over the edge of a soft, worn square of fabric. It used to be red, now it’s more pink. Initials are embroidered in the corner: MR.
Margaux Rivière.
My mother’s handkerchief.
She used to wave it at my junior games. Every single one. I’d skate out onto the ice, helmet tucked under my arm, and I’d find her instantly, waving that ridiculous little cloth.
She came to every game, no matter the weather, no matterhow far she had to travel. Rain or snow, early mornings or doubleheaders, she was always there.
My father was already gone by then, a tragic accident I barely remember and never dared ask the details about. It was justMamanand me for a long time.
And then… it wasn’t.
She got sick my last year in juniors. Hid it from me until the end of the season. By the time I found out, she’d been pretending everything was fine for months.
She died two weeks before my first pro tryout.
The handkerchief has lived in every jersey I’ve ever worn since.
