Page 85 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
I nod at it appreciatively. “So, this is not the ‘be prepared for anything’ part, right? Like you mentioned in the text? Because I’ve definitely had lasagna before.”
She takes in a sharp breath. “No. That part comes later.”
I pause, fork in hand. “Should I be worried?”
“Oh, certainly.”
She says it so dryly I can’t tell if she’s joking.
“I brought a bag with four different outfits in it,” I say, “because I didn’t know what you had planned.”
Her head snaps up. “Four different outfits? For what purpose?”
“I was afraid it would involve goats and glitter.”
Marcy pretends to consider it. “No glitter, anyhow.”
I chuckle, but the truth is, Iamworried.
I’m worried this is going to go well.
Because if it does, if I let her in for real, I don’t know how I could ever go back to France. Not even back to the version ofme who keeps everything stitched up behind smiles and charm. Definitely not to the version who pretends it’s all just light-hearted and casual. And once Mathieu arrives in a couple of days, I won’t be able to hide a thing. He can read my every thought before I think it.
But this is what I want. I glance down at my plate. “You know,” I say, “my mother made a lasagna kind of like this.”
Marcy looks up from her fork. “Yeah?”
I nod. “She swore the secret was cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon?”
I shrug. “I thought she was insane. But it worked. Just a pinch. She said it made the tomato sauce feel like a hug.”
Marcy smiles, her eyes fixed on me.
“She worked a lot,” I continue, surprised at how easily the words are coming. “Long shifts. She was a nurse, always tired. But she never missed one of my games. Not a single one. Even the ones that didn’t matter.”
Her hands are folded around her water glass, her head tilted to the side as she waits for me to go on.
“I told you how she used to wave a handkerchief at me from the stands. I’d look for it before every game, just to know she was there.”
“You did. I’ll never forget that. I can picture it.”
A breath catches in my throat, but I push through. “After she passed, I started keeping that handkerchief with me. Still do. Tucked under the padding where it won’t get ruined.”
Marcy’s expression doesn’t change, but her stillness—how her shoulders don’t shift, how she doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t fidget—tells me she’s listening deeply to every word.
“I think,” I say, twisting the edge of my napkin between my fingers, “I might be done with hockey after this season.”
It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. I can’t bring myself to look at her.
“I love it. I do. But I’m not twenty anymore, and the injuries…” I pause, still twisting the napkin. “I’ve given it everything. But maybe I want to give something to the rest of my life now.”
The silence stretches between us as we gaze in each other’s eyes. There’s a bridge between us that we’ve only just begun to build.
Then Marcy says softly, “I’m glad you told me.”
That’s it. No advice or reaction other than her presence, and it’s enough. I feel lighter. We sit quietly. Her eyes sparkle in the light of the sunset and I’m being pulled in. We stay that way, looking at each other, comfortable in the silence.
