Page 89 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
His voice is low when he speaks. “Meeting you has been the best thing that’s happened to me since I arrived in Maple Falls.”
I blink. “Really?”
He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s surprised too. “I thought I came here for hockey. For the house. For a chance to reset my life on my own terms. And then?—”
And then?
He stops, his eyes studying mine.
“I met you.”
My breath catches and I’m sure he sees it.
The thing is, I’m a woman who makes up her mind. I know what I know, and I know it well. The problem with Clément is that I’dthoughtI’d made up my mind, and yet here I am, and here he is, and I have to confess that I was wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
I’ve seen the way people look at him, talk about him, cheer for him. He’s got fans and teammates and a whole town that swoons every time he so much as orders a coffee. He’s living out dreams people spend their whole lives chasing.
And still, he’s here tonight, with me, making me feelspecial with his simple truths and vulnerability that he wears on his sleeve.
“I’m doing everything I can, Marcy. Everything I can to not put any kind of pressure on you, because I understand where you’re coming from. But I can’t hold on to this anymore. I can’t keep it to myself. Everything between us feels…” He searches for the word. “Perfect.”
My throat tightens. “But?”
“But there was a call. From France. A guy I trained with wants to start a team and he’s got ambitious ideas. And he asked me to be a part of it. He asked me to come home.”
The word hits me.
Home.
He watches me carefully. “I told him I was trying to put down roots here. That I wasn’t done in Maple Falls. But he knows I’m struggling.” He gives a dry laugh, then grows quiet again. “I am a little lost, Marcy.”
I press my lips together, my voice caught somewhere between breath and disbelief.
He reaches for my hand.
His palm is firm and callused, but the touch is gentle, reverent. His fingers curl around mine like he’s done it a hundred times, like it’s instinct.
“I’m scared,” he says. “If I stay here, I could lose everything I’ve worked for. The career. The dream. But if I leave, I might never know what this could be.” His thumb grazes my knuckles. “What we could become.”
My breath shakes.
I glance at our hands, and the thought creeps in before I can reason it away: I want more than this.
More than his hand on mine. I want to lean into him and see if he’d hold me. I want to know what it would feel like to tuck my face into that space between his collar and his jaw. Iwant to feel him kiss me in the same way he looks at me. Like I’mthe one.
I don’t even know where that kind of wanting comes from. But it’s here. And I want it. I want it so much it scares me.
“What are you going to do?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
The puzzle’s been forgotten, left half-finished on the floor like a conversation paused mid-sentence.
We settle into a position shoulder to shoulder, hands around our mugs and not saying much, not needing to. His presence is so warm beside me that I almost forget the hour. My mug’s empty, my fingers wrapped around cool ceramic, and I rise wordlessly to make more tea.
He doesn’t protest. Just watches me, quiet. Maybe wondering the same thing I am—how something so simple can feel so full.
