Page 82 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“What are youdoing?”
“I’m helping.”
“You have a date!”
“I havetime!” I call back, gesturing toward my phone, like time will save me from the messy truth of the situation.
“Marcy.” Angel’s voice drops into serious territory. “You’ve been pining over this man forweeks.”
My jaw drops. “I have not.”
Angel gives me a look. “Please. You reorganize the supply cupboard alphabetically every time he texts you.”
I open my mouth. Close it. “Not the point.”
Angel points at me, scandalized. “You cannot go on a date looking like this.”
“Who said it’s my first-ever date?” I declare defensively, before realizing that’s not at all what she just said.
They both stare.
“I mean…” I glance down at myself. “Did I just say that? Okay, fine. It is.”
Angel’s hand covers her heart. “Oh, sweetie, you’ve never?—?”
Scotty fumbles with a zip tie. “Never?”
“Nope. Never had one. Not a real one. Not where someone actually… tried.” I glance toward the horizon. “Not unless you count the time Paul took me with his friends to seeFast Cars and Fury 7and left partway through because he got bored.”
Angel rushes forward and takes me by the shoulders. “Honey,” she says with copious maternal affection.
Scotty shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re smart. Gorgeous. Responsible. The kind of woman most guys would crawl through chicken poop to impress.”
“Not that chicken poop should be part of the date,” Angel adds with a side-eye to Scotty. “So what do you have planned for this date?"
Planned. That's a big word. I warned Clément to beprepared for anything, and I meant it because I actually have no idea.
"I figured I'd give him a cup of tea and then we'd work on the ranch."
Scotty and Angel's jaws drop in synchronized shock.
"What?” I shrug the way I used to when I was a teenager. “Scotty needs the help, and I thought it would be fun for Clément to do something he's never done before. Like shoe a pony…"
Even as I'm saying it, it feels ridiculous.
“Oh, sweetie, wehaveto get you cleaned up. We’ve got—” she checks her phone—“seventeen minutes.”
“A date. A real date.” I bite my lip.
“Exactly,” Angel puts her hands on my shoulders. “With a man who only tries to prove again and again that he’s a good one and you were going to make him shovel chicken poop.”
I gasp. “What was I thinking?”
Angel is already dragging me by the elbow. “You weren’t. But we’re thinking now. Operation Date Rescue begins.”
And just like that, I’m yanked from denial into a full-blown crisis.
With chicken feed in my bra and a metro token in my pocket.
