Page 67 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
He doesn’t.
Instead, he skates in closer and I snap.
I rip off my blocker and toss it down. My mask follows, clattering across the ice like a dropped plate. I hold on to my stick, but it trembles in my grip as I stand up straight for the first time in what feels like hours.
“You want to know what’s going on?” I shout to the universe more than Asher. “Everythingis going on. That’s what.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches, arms crossed, waiting.
“I’ve been playing like a useless twig,” I spit. “My reads are slow, my head’s a mess, I can’t stay in the zone for more than five minutes at a time without thinking abouther.”
My voice catches, but I push through.
“She hasn’t called. She hasn’t come by. Not even a message. Nothing. And you know what? Fine. Maybe I deserve that. But what am I supposed to do, huh? Sit around and mope like some melancholic prince?”
I gesture wildly, skating in tight circles like I can outpace the ache.
“So I come out here. I work. I grind. I block and sweat and bruise myself because it’s theonlything I can control right now. I don’t even have a permit to continue working on my house! Hockey brought me here. To this country. To this team. Toeverything.And I’m losing it.”
I finally stop, panting.
“I’ve got two days before I have to move out of the condo, and the house looks like a disaster zone. Never mind that I’m alone. The girl I was falling for—reallyfalling for—wants nothing to do with me.”
My stick drops.
“It’s all falling apart. And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even knowwhichdream I’m supposed to chase anymore because right now it feels like they’re all circling the drain.”
Asher places a hand on my shoulder.
“Buddy,” he says. “That’s a lot.”
I laugh. Or maybe choke. I can’t tell the difference. “I know,” I mutter. “I know it is.”
For a second, I think I’m fine. Then the tears hit me like a punch. Asher doesn’t flinch.
“Hey, you ever heard of integration?” he asks gently.
I frown, sniff once, swipe my wrist across my nose. “Are you trying to say I’m not American enough?”
Asher lets out a bark of laughter that echoes off the rafters. “No, man. I meanpsychological integration. You’re living two lives. There’s the guy you show to everyone—Frenchie. The smooth talker. The cupcake king. The guy with a wink and a smile for every situation.”
I wince, but… he’s not wrong.
“And then there’s this guy,” he says, tapping my chestlightly with the butt of his stick. “The one who’s losing sleep over a girl because hefeelsthings. The guy who wants more than just to be some hotshot goalie with fast reflexes and a charming accent.”
This is hitting awfully close to home.
“You’re trying to live as both. But you’re treating them like they can’t touch. Like you can’t be the real youandstill chase this dream.”
I stare down at my gloves on the ice.
“I thought…” I clear my throat. “I thought I had to be that guy. The one they want. The American version of a goalie. A little cocky. A little bulletproof.”
“You ever think they just want you to beyou?” Asher says.
I have no words. He just swallowed mine whole.
Back in France, it was always hockey. Morning, noon, midnight—if I wasn’t on the ice, I was thinking about it. After my mother died, it became my lifeline. My way out. My reason. I told myself there was no time for anything else—not dating, not settling down. I was married to the game. Every decision I made was filtered through the question:Will this get me closer to the league?
