Page 55 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
I nod, resisting the part of me that wants to say,Me too.
Instead, my mouth does the thing it does when I’m uncomfortable and rapidly spiraling: it talks.
“I didn’t realize you were so popular. I mean, the crowd loved you. You’re practically the dreamboat of the Ice Breakers team. All those people shouting your name, and that woman with theI love you, Frenchiething—whatwasthat?”
Clément stares and Scotty shifts his weight and folds his arms.
I should stop. I should. I hear the edge in my voice. I know it sounds defensive, but it’s like trying to steer a canoe in a hurricane.
“Then again, you must be used to it by now,” I say, arms crossed tight. “Being a star. Must be hard keeping all your lady fans off you.”
There’s a beat of silence. Clément stares at me. Stutters. Opens his mouth. Closes it.
Then Scotty turns his head slowly toward me with a look I recognizeverywell.
It’s the look he gives Lily when she tries to claim the broken jar was “already cracked.”
Clément rubs the back of his neck, his fingers dragging slowly through the hair at his nape. He looks… hurt? Or like he’s trying to read me, trying to understand if he imagined the warmth between us the other night or if it has simply evaporated.
There’s a question in his expression, maybe more than one. But he doesn’t ask.
He drops his gaze to the ground, lets his hand fall to his side, and clears his throat lightly.
“I should get back,” he says, voice lower now, a littlerougher. “My house isn’t going to fix itself and I’m on a timeline now. Thanks for lending me the nail gun, Scotty.”
And just like that, the wall between us is complete. I built it, brick by careful brick.
He nods at Scotty, offers me the smallest of waves, then shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets. “À bientôt.”
Scotty claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll try to get out there, lend a hand.”
Clément pats his hand back, gently. “Don’t worry about it,mon vieux.I have strong legs and poor time management. It’ll get done, eventually. This was the dream.”
He looks at me again, hesitates, and then smiles quickly.
Then he’s walking away, shoulders hunched. I have an awful swoop in my stomach. He didn’t do anything wrong.
But this is for the best. Space. Logic. Self-preservation. I know how these stories end.
I intend to go back inside and continue convincing myself that I’m doing the right thing, but Scotty’s still standing there. Hands on hips and eyebrows up.
“Marcy,” he says. “Let’s talk about what’s really going on.”
I stiffen. “There’s nothing going on. I mean, you know how hockey players are.”
His brows inch up higher.
I barrel ahead. “They’re charming. They’re flirty. They know exactly how to work a crowd. And they always go for the person whoisn’tfalling for it, because it’s a challenge. That’s what this is. That’s what Clément’s doing. He’s just circling the ice like I’m some kind of… emotional puck.”
Scotty exhales slowly. “Is that really how you feel about hockey players?”
My brain screamsabort,but my mouth doesn’t listen. “Look at them on TV,” I say, waving widely like the entirestreaming industry has betrayed me personally. “The tabloids, the interviews, the headlines. They’re bad boys in designer suits. Tattoos, fast cars, bad decisions. And I amnotgetting pulled into that orbit. I’ve been down that track before. And spoiler alert, it doesn’t end in happily ever after.”
Scotty doesn’t laugh. “Is that what you think of me?”
And just like that, the floor falls out from under me.
“What? No. Scotty, no. You’re… you’re different.”
