Page 53 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
I drop, blocker low, and feel the thud against my pad. I cover it before it kicks loose.
Whistle. The crowd roars.
I don’t move right away. I’ve learned to stay still after a save. Let them see me calm.
Weston glides past and taps my helmet with his stick.
“Nice eyes, Frenchie,” he mutters. “Didn’t bite once.”
“Of course not,” I say, even though my pulse is still punching the inside of my ribs.
Back on my feet. Another rush. Another shot, this one higher and faster. I glove it clean and toss it to the ref with the smoothest flick I can manage.
Stick taps from Lucian and Asher this time. Carson smacks the back of my leg as he skates past, which in hockey terms is practically a love letter.
They trust me now.
The rest of the game is a blur of movement, muscle, and noise. I stay locked in, shifting from side to side, reading their plays like a second language. A few more close calls. Two scrambles. One moment where I think I’ve lost the puck entirely—but then it’s there, right in front of me, and I freeze it with a desperate slide and a little bit of prayer.
Final buzzer.
3–0.
No goals taken. Not one got by me.
It’s my first shutout with the Ice Breakers. I again hear a screeching voice in the stands calling, “Je t’aime, Frenchie!” and wonder if that’s the only real French expression that made it across the Atlantic.
I hardly have time to straighten before Jamie skates over,grinning like a man who’s got a cigar waiting in the locker room.
“Frenchie,” he exclaims, “you’re a wall!” Then he lifts his stick and taps mine. “You can’t say you’re not doing the bachelor auction now. With that shutout, you are going to single-handedly save the town! Player of the game!”
I don’t get a chance to say anything more before the others crowd in, jostling and shouting, sticks raised in a cluster of proud, chaotic energy.
I grin through it all, heart racing, sweat dripping, adrenaline still spiking behind my eyes.
I glance toward the stands…
But she’s gone.
CHAPTER 19
MARCY
The cupcake margins aren’t margining.
I squint at Neesha’s spreadsheet and try not to bang my head against the table.
She’s got talent, no question. Her cinnamon chai cupcakes are basically an out-of-body experience. But talent doesn’t pay taxes. And right now, her inventory system is more suggestion than structure. She’s labeled half her receipts as “fun stuff” and included an entirely unexplained line item for “cupcake emergencies.”
I cross outcupcake emergenciesand replace it withcontingency supply budget.Better. Slightly less adorable. Much more IRS-friendly.
My pen stills as my mind wanders back to last night, to the rink, the lights, the roar of the crowd.
Back to him.
Clément played like he was born for it. The way the arena screamed when his name was called, I swear the floor vibrated. Peoplelovehim.
Including the woman in front of me, screaming throughout the game,Je t’aime, Frenchie!and referring to him—loudly and with zero shame—asfilet mignon.
