Page 62 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“Ten throws,” she announces, counting them out like poker chips and then points with her thumb to Carson. “No refunds if he heckles you.”
“Oh, he will,” Clément replies. “But I will have the last laugh.”
The crowd thickens. People have started noticing that Carson, with a mile-wide grin, is perched on the dunk tank ledge, taunting the town's newest favorite Frenchman.
“You callthata throwing stance?” Carson crows, leaning forward with an exaggerated yawn.
Clément mutters under his breath, squinting down the invisible line from the softball to the bullseye.
He throws…
And misses. A collective “Ooooh!” ripples through the crowd.
Carson waves. “Strike one!”
Clément puffs out his cheeks and tosses the next ball. Another miss.
“Strike two! Should’ve stuck to throwing tantrums!”
The third hits the wooden board but bounces off harmlessly. By the fifth throw, Clément has abandoned the air of quiet confidence and begun muttering what I can only assume are very creative French insults under his breath. Though the words sound lovely.
By the seventh throw, Angel offers him a hot apple cider.
By the ninth miss, Edgar has sat down beside me, chewing a piece of someone’s corn husk doll, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
I’m trying not to laugh, but it’s hopeless.
Clément whirls toward me, cheeks flushed, arms wide. “I’ve been cursed.”
“No,” I say. “You’re just bad at throwing things.”
The crowd is fully invested now. Children are chanting. Teens are filming. Someone has set their phone to play theRockytheme song.
Clément lifts the final ball like it’s made of gold.
Then he turns toward me.
“Ahnon,” I say, hands going up.
He drops to one knee. “Marcy Fontaine,” he says, loud enough for most of Maple Fest to turn our way, “would you do me the honor… of helping me vanquish my overconfident friend?”
“You’re ridiculous.” A laugh escapes me. I take the ball, fingers brushing his as I do.
“Do your best,” he whispers in that silky French accent. “All of Maple Falls is watching.”
So is he.
My hands are sweating. The ball’s lighter than I expected and I square my shoulders.
Just like that, I’m not at Maple Fest anymore. I’m back in a dusty field on the edge of the Hudson River, the sun burning the tops of my thighs through white polyester pants, the scoreboard announcingPoughkeepsie Pixies – 4, Syracuse Sirens – 3.
Top of the ninth. Two outs.
My hand around the softball, slick with nerves and Gatorade. My catcher, Laney, crouched behind the plate with that look in her eyes that said,This is it, Fontaine. You mess this up and you’re paying for post-game snacks for the rest of the season.
I struck the batter out to win the game.
We didn’t win a championship—the Pixies weren’t really built for dynasties—but that moment, that throw… it wasmine.
