Page 52 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
It’s folded carefully and tucked close, an anchor beneath layers of padding. A reminder that I play for more than points. That someone once believed in me so loudly, I never forgot the sound of it.
The announcer calls Carson’s name. The building shudders again.
I close my eyes, breathe in the cold, and whisper in French, “J'aimerais que tu puisses me voir maintenant, Maman.”
I wish you could see me now,Maman.
Then comes the announcer’s voice. “And in goal tonight, wearing number ninety-five… Clément Rivière!”
I push off the wall and skate forward, into the tunnel, out toward the ice and the lights and the deafening roar.
And then, just as I pass the blue line, the air shifts.
That amazing feeling.
The sound, the light, the thousands of faces blurred into one living, breathing pulse. It’s like standing in the eye of a storm—windless, clear—but you canfeeleverything swirling just outside the calm.
First game. New team. New town.
Maple Falls may be small, but tonight the energy insidethis place is bigger than any Paris arena I’ve ever played in. Like the whole town believes in us.
I skate toward my crease, gloves flexing, eyes scanning the boards like muscle memory. Instinctively, my eyes start scanning across the rows and rows of fans. I can’t help it.
Where’s Marcy?
I know it’s impossible to find her. There are too many faces, too much noise, and I have no idea where she’s sitting. For all I know, she never came. Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she remembered she hates hockey and walked home the second the crowd started chanting.
“Je t’aime, Frenchie!”
The voice is high and ecstatic and absolutely not Marcy’s. But I turn anyway. Reflex.
A woman with a sign that saysBreak Me Off a Piece of That Ice Breakeris waving her arms in my direction, nearly taking out her seat neighbor with the sign.
Definitely not Marcy.
But just behind her—two rows back, barely visible between a blur of clapping hands and foam fingers…
There she is.
Sitting still and composed. She’s here.
For one wild, electric second, our eyes meet.
She doesn’t smile, but the corners of her mouth twitch like she’s fighting one.
That’s enough.
A warmth spreads through me, faster than the cold of the arena. I nod once to her and slide into my crease as the music swells and the puck is dropped.
She came.
The game begins.
The first shot comes early. Too early.
I’ve just settled into my stance when the Vikings charge.Their center’s quick, twitchy, likes to fake high and shoot low. I track him, stay patient. Let the puck come to me.
It does.
