Page 79 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
Marcy: So what do you want to do tonight?
Me: You get to decide, remember?
Marcy: In that case, be prepared for anything.
Anything? I can’t imagine her taking me bungee jumping, but then again, this is our first date.
The puck slams against the boards and I file date night thoughts for later. My head is thrumming with the low vibrations of what is sure to become a bad, bad headache.
The distraction of the ice seems to keep it at bay, but my game is suffering.
My skates screech as I stop short in front of the net, sweat sliding down the back of my neck. The puck I was meant to block clinks against the boards, and Jamie doesn’t even try to hide the groan.
“Again,” I call out.
He hesitates. “You sure, Frenchie?”
I’m not sure at all, but I nod anyway. “Oui. Again.”
He fires. I move late. The puck slips past my glove and clangs off the post.
Another miss.
“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, tapping the blade of my stick against the ice like it owes me.
My head feels like it’s packed with static, every breath threaded with pain. It’s bad at night and even worse in the morning. Have I already pushed it too far?
I yank off my helmet, pressing the cool plastic to my forehead. Across the ice, Asher is watching me. He doesn’t say anything.
I know how I look. The golden boy goalie, falling apart one shaky glove save at a time.
When practice ends, I head straight to Weston’s condo, hoping to avoid questions I don’t want to answer. I’m a man with a house I can’t live in. My best friend is coming to town in two days and I don’t even have a place to put him up. Add that I’m a man with a career I’ve built since I was ten years old—coming apart in my own hands.
I flop on the sofa and stare at the ceiling.
Then there’s a woman who makes me feel like myself. Like I belong, not just to her, but to this place. To this small town with its maple trees and its unpredictable goats and its second chances. The woman I have a date with tonight. I don’t care how people chuckled and shook their heads about it. I could never bear to go out with anyone except her.
But on top of that is the offer from France.
That call from Jules plays again in my head. He sent me a text this morning:
Jules: Come home, mon gars. Start fresh. You’ll make your mark in building a new team.
Something new. Something safe. Something slower.
Something where I’m not risking the last threads of my vision, my coordination, and my career every time I get on the ice.
That’s the thing no one tells you about dreams. When you’re chasing them, they feel inevitable, but when you feel them slipping away… they start to feel like obligations.
I came here to be the best. I came here to prove that a French goalie could make it in the American leagues. That I could take everything I’d lost and make it meaningful.
Now I’m just tired.
And my date with Marcy—the one bright spot, the one thing I want to get right—I don’t even know if I can show up and be the man she deserves. How can I be worthy of her if I can’t even decide which life I’m living?
Integration, that’s what Asher said. If only I could figure out what that means.
The sound of heavy boots stomping in unison echoes down the hallway toward Weston’s apartment and the sofa where I’m busy feeling sorry for myself.
