Page 54 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
Okay, yes. Objectively, he’s symmetrical. And tall. And the tux on the night of the inaugural bash didn’t exactly hurt.
But did she have to yell it like she was ordering off a menu?
I’m desperate to absorb myself back in Neesha’s financials when I hear a low chuckle, faint through the window.
No.
No, no, no, no. I am hallucinating now. I’ve officially conjured his laugh out of thin air.
I push back from the desk, walk to the curtain, and pull it open?—
He’s here.
Walking across the garden with Scotty. Clément is wearing a flannel shirt and pushing his hair back like he just stepped out of a woodsy fragrance ad. He says something I can’t hear, and Scotty laughs so hard he nearly topples into a fence post.
And just like that, my carefully cultivated emotional distance crumbles a little more.
I dart a quick glance around the cabin like a raccoon caught in a flashlight beam. No back door. No closet big enough to convincingly slip into. I even consider climbing out the window, but the screen is still stuck from the summer storms.
Then the knock comes. Firm and cheerful, it’s Scotty’s knock.
“Marcy?” he calls.
I freeze. My heart tries to burrow down into my stomach. I grab the closest object, a highlighter, and clutch it like I’m going to defend myself with fluorescent yellow logic.
“I—uh—I’m doing inventory!” I shout. “Very delicate math happening in here! Can’t open the door!”
There’s a pause.
“Marcy,” Scotty says in his patentedDad Knows You’re Lyingvoice, “you doing inventory in your pajamas?”
Busted.
I groan and shuffle to the door, taking a second to smooth my hair and pull my cardigan tighter around me, as if that will fortify my crumbling emotional walls.
When I open the door, Clément is a step behind Scotty. I stand up straight, trying to conjure professional composure in jammies that are covered in corgi dogs. “Good morning.”
Scotty claps Clément’s shoulder. “Player of the game stopped by for coffee. You joining us?”
“I’m busy.”
My voice comes out clipped.
Clément’s face flickers. That smile he always seems to carry, natural and easy, hesitates at the corners of his mouth before slipping.
Good.
No, not good.
Heavens, I don’t know what I want anymore.
Scotty’s eyebrows lift like I’ve just pulled a fire alarm for fun.
I clear my throat and fold my arms tighter. “Let me just say…”Deep breath. Steady. Stick to the facts.“You played well. Last night.”
There. Compliment delivered. No swooning. No evidence of emotional vulnerability. Just one adult acknowledging the performance of another adult, like we’re at a formal awards banquet instead of standing three feet apart with my heart doing somersaults and my stomach tying itself in knots.
Clément’s mouth curves back into that smile. “I was glad you came.”
