Page 61 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“Absolutely. Mayor Thompkins, great to have you back, sir. And I’ll be sure to be in your office on Monday morning about a certain permit issue.” I offer a wink and give Edgar’s ears a quick scratch as Marcy and the mayor take a few strides away, whispering. “Bonjour, mon pote. Keeping the paparazzi in line?”
Edgar lets out a soft bleat, then headbutts my thigh.
The goat and I head further into the Happy Horizons corner, past kids bobbing for apples, until I catch sight of a small above-ground pool. It’s bright blue and jarringly out of place against the rustic background. A narrow ledge stretches across the surface, and sitting on it, like a prince, is Carson.
I’d have thought after the Drench for Defense business, he would’ve had enough of wet t-shirts. But apparently he’s a glutton for punishment.
Carson’s legs dangle over the edge, his sneakers already damp. He’s wearing a t-shirt that readsREADY FOR IT!and has the casual confidence of someone who’s either done this before or has fully accepted his fate.
A little girl stands several feet back, holding a baseball the size of her own head.
“Ready when you are,” Carson calls. “Just remember, if I fall in, your gym teacher will give you an A.”
The girl throws. The ball veers off to the left, misses the target by a mile, and Carson lets out a dramatic sigh of relief.
“Maybe when you’re older,” he says, tossing his arms in the air like he’s won the lottery.
I laugh—loudly.
Angel catches my eye and waves. “Clément, you better keep Edgar out of that pool.”
I lift both hands. “He’s your goat!”
“He only listens to you!”
As if on cue, Edgar pulls toward the dunk tank, eyes gleaming with mischief as he slips out of my grip on his collar.
“Viens ici, mon grand,” I coo at Edgar in French and gesture for him to come to me. Incredibly, he does. He responds well to French, go figure.
Marcy strides back over, arms crossed, grinning softly at me.“I knew I left you in safe hands. I think Mayor Thompkins has everything he needs. What would you like to check out next?”
“Hey, Frenchie!” Carson calls. “Looks like it’s your turn. Thank goodness the French are notoriously bad at throwing a baseball.”
I wish he was wrong. We have many a great sport in France—rugby, football which the Americans call soccer, and we have world class swimmers. As a hockey player, I was always the odd one out, but I adore the rush of the ice like nothing else.
Throwing a ball… not my forte.
But some ancient part of my masculinity cannot live downa challenge like that. Carson has a smirk that I’d love to wipe off his face.
“Attention,” I say with my French accent. “You are about to get very, very wet,mon ami.”
Marcy has an eyebrow raised and an amused smile.
Here goes nothing.
CHAPTER 21
MARCY
There are a thousand things happening around me—music playing, cider bubbling, a child screaming with joy over winning a stuffed goat that looks suspiciously like Edgar’s cousin—but all I see is Clément.
He’s goat-whispering again.
One hand gently pats Edgar’s head like he’s an old buddy, while the other gestures in wide, exaggerated sweeps toward the dunk tank. “Regarde, mon chèvre,” he murmurs, as if Edgar speaks fluent French. “We are going to humiliate the man with the smug smile.”
Edgar bleats in agreement. He’s absolutely on board.
Angel, who is watching with the bemused expression of someone who long ago surrendered to the pandemonium, holds out a bucket of softballs while Lisette plays at her feet. Clément slips her a twenty with a wink.
