Page 66 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
The puck whirrs past me and it’s 3-2.
And there goes the final buzzer.
I slump in the crease, glove hanging loose, watching as the Barracudas celebrate like they just won the Stanley Cup. My teammates skate off with shoulders stiff and jaws tight.
I peel off my helmet and close my eyes, even as Lucian skates over and taps my shoulder, telling me it wasn’t my fault.
It was. It was absolutely my fault.
“Again,” I bark, droppinginto position.
Asher’s already circling back with another puck. He lines it up. Fires.
I block it with the edge of my right pad. We’ve got games all this week before the Bachelor Auction on Friday, and I’m thankful for the distraction. Evening games, daytime practices, fitting in a little DIY where I can since I’vefinallyconvinced Mathieu to come to Maple Falls in about ten days’ time.
I’m doing everythingnotto think about Marcy.
“Again,” I say before the puck’s even stopped spinning.
Asher raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Another shot. This one’s high—glove side. I snag it out of the air and hurl it to the boards.
Not cleanly. Sloppy.
Useless.
“Again.”
This is the second hour of working on shots. Or third? I don’t know anymore. I lost track after my second water bottle and the sting of my shoulders stopped registering.
All I know is I haven’t seen her in a week, and it’s showing in my game.
It just keeps getting worse—I miss her, and it’saffecting my skills. My rhythm’s off. My reads are slow. In the last two games, I gave up goals I would’ve eaten alive a month ago. I’ve been lucky enough not to get a single headache, but seems my heart is causing just as much trouble.
Sure, we won two out of three games this past week—but I didn’tearnthose results. Not the way I should have.
Asher circles. Shoots again.
This time I track it clean. Pad save. Rebound cleared.
Hockey is who I am. This is what brought me across the ocean. I can't lose this too.
The next shot slips past my blocker and rattles the net.
“Purée!” I shout. “Encore.”
Asher glides over, stick slung across his shoulders, brows drawn low.
“Okay,” he says. “That one was on me. Maybe. But you’re cracking, man. What’s going on with you?”
“Shoot again,” I say, snapping my mask back down.
“Nope.” He taps his stick against the ice like a gavel. “Time out. You’ve been acting like your brain’s on fire since the Barracudas game. You’ve barely said more than two words to the team. Now you’re out here asking me to turn you into Swiss cheese.”
I stay crouched. “Hit me again.”
“Clément, what’s going on?”
“Asher,” I snap. “Shoot.”
