Page 71 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“Here,” he says, handing me a coffee that smells like it was brewed in a black hole. “Afternoon breakfast of bachelor champions.”
I stare at it, then take a sip. It’s molten and tastes like burned tires, but it does its job. I’m awake now.
Sort of.
“You look like a raccoon gave up halfway through raidingyour soul,” Weston says, flopping into the armchair across from me.
I rub my eyes. “It was a long morning, been a long few weeks. I needed the rest.”
I keep thinking about what Asher said. About integration. About being two versions of myself and not knowing which one is real anymore. In France, I was the rising star who never had time for anything but ice. Here, I’ve started to become someone else. Someone who wants more than stats and trophies. Someone who maybe believes in connection and roots and early morning coffee in a tiny town full of goats and stubborn women who make your chest ache in all the best ways.
The offer back in France is everything I used to want for my post-playing days. So, with my condition ever-present like a guillotine, why does it feel like a question mark instead of a lifeline?
I rub my temple, but the ache doesn’t go away.
I know this pain.
The neurologist had been very clear.
“We don’t know what’s causing it, and we have no way to cure it.”
I look at Weston, but I can’t bring myself to say anything more. I know something’s not right in my head, and tonight I’m supposed to stand on a stage and smile like everything’s fine.
I wish I could talk to Marcy about all this.
Bachelor auction. The closer I get to the building, the bigger the rock in my stomach gets.
It’s not nerves. I’ve played in front of twenty thousand screaming fans, been body-checked so hard I forgot what city I was in, and taken penalty shots with the game on the line. That kind of stress, I know how to carry.
This is different.
This is smiling for people who don’t know you, laughing at things that aren’t funny, pretending like it’s all harmless fun while you feel like your life is unraveling in quiet, invisible ways.
I stop just before the entrance and glance down at myself.
In my team suit, at least that feels familiar. Pressed shirt. Tailored jacket. French cravat becauseof course. Shoes polished so hard I could check my reflection in them. And yes—I blow-dried my hair.
The Frenchman has arrived, ladies and gentlemen. Your imported fantasy in all his pre-packaged glory.
I laugh, because I genuinely don’t care. There’s only one woman I wanted to see tonight.
And she wouldn’t be caughtdeadat a bachelor auction.
CHAPTER 25
MARCY
Ican’t believe I’m doing this.
I’m in the backseat of Scotty and Angel’s truck, sandwiched between a flannel blanket and a suspiciously sparkly tote bag that Angel insists is “part of the vibe.” The truck smells like hay and cookies. It’s the most deceptively wholesome ride to an emotional ambush I’ve ever taken.
“Come on,” Angel says, twisting in the passenger seat to look back at me. “It’s going to be ablast. You’ll see.”
“It’s all in good fun,” Scotty chimes in from the driver’s seat. “A few harmless bids, some applause, one or two questionable dance moves. You’ll be out of there with a cupcake and your dignity intact.”
“I don’t remember signing a waiver for either of those outcomes,” I mutter, but I don’t demand that Scotty turn around either.
Even if I don’t want to go, that didn’t stop me from curling my hair, or putting on lipstick that cost more than my last electric bill. Or slipping into a dress that, while still squarely in the realm of “professional small-town accountant,”happens to fit like I remembered I was a woman tonight.
