Page 73 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
Second thoughts flood me. “Oh—no. No, thank you.”
She leans in conspiratorially. “Come on, it’s for charity. Just one little paddle. You don’t even have to use it.”
“No,” I say again, sharper this time. “Really. I’m not bidding.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence. The buzz of the crowd fills it, while Ashlyn studies me.
“All right,” she says softly, tucking the paddle back into her stack. “No pressure. Just glad you’re here.”
She moves on, and I pretend to be very interested in rearranging the fold of my dress.
Angel says nothing and Scotty, for once, doesn’t make a joke. I know what they’re thinking, but I didn’t come here to play games.
The lights dim slowly and a hush falls across the room, then the soft rustle of sequins and whispering and someone at the next table nervously hiccupping.
Ashlyn takes the stage again, steps up to the mic, and taps it once. “Good evening, Maple Falls and esteemedguests! What do you say we auction off some hockey players?”
Applause rolls across the room.
“Remember, every dollar helps us save Maple Falls. And maybe you’ll walk away with a date worth writing home about.”
More applause breaks out, plus a few hoots and one overly enthusiastic “WOO!” from the table near the front.
And then… I see him.
Just a flicker of movement behind the side curtain. A shoulder. A silhouette. The sharp, lean angle of someone adjusting his cufflink.
Clément.
He’s dressed in the same suit as the other guys, but with a perfectly tailored jacket. His hair is swept back. He doesn’t even need to stand tall to command attention, and still he does. Regal. Effortless. European menace and softhearted mystery, all rolled into one devastatingly handsome package.
He doesn’t see me.
Of course he doesn’t. I’m one of a hundred faces lost in shadow. Still, I lean forward, squinting through the twinkle lights, like I could reach him across the space.
When he adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves again, eyes briefly down, then up toward the stage entrance with a look so obviously of apprehension, I ache for him. And that’s when the lights go out entirely.
A single spotlight slices through the dark, illuminating the center of the stage.
Ashlyn’s voice purrs through the speakers:
“And now, ladies… it’s time to open your wallets for a good cause.”
CHAPTER 26
CLÉMENT
Istand just offstage, hiding behind a velvet curtain, and I wonder—for the hundredth time—what in the name of Edith Piaf I’m doing here.
In France, we do not auction men for dates.
We flirt. We linger. We write poetry that makes people weep into their red wine. We donotparade across a stage while strangers wave numbered paddles and holler. I’m just thankful Mathieu doesn’t arrive for a few more days. For him to be witness to this would mean lifelong jabs at my expense.
And thus, the show begins.
The spotlight hits our teammate Jackson Flint, and he walks onto the stage with an easy, confident grin. The crowd—mostly women, but a few enthusiastic dad types—erupts into cheers. Someone whistles.
Oh la la.
