Page 9 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
The front porch is leaning slightly to the left, as if it’s had a long life and one too many bourbons.
I loved it instantly.
“I still don’t understand how no one else scooped this place up,” I say, arms crossed, gaze sweeping from the crooked eaves to the grand, sagging porch. The columns are original—cracked but noble—and the wraparound railing is eaten by ivy and time. It’s perfect.
Beside me, the realtor exhales like she’s been holding in a long opinion. “Oh, they tried. A few folks kicked the tires. But it’s a lot of work. And the history scared people off.”
I arch a brow. “History scared them?”
“This place,” she gestures with her folder toward the peeling gables. “It belonged to one of Maple Falls’s founding families. Big name back in the day. Civic leaders, town visionaries. This house was practically the beating heart of Maple Falls.”
I glance at the second-story window with its warped glass and scalloped trim. “And now I own it.”
“You do,” she says, but her smile is equal parts congratulations and warning.
The wind rustles the porch swing, and I can practically hear it groan. I step onto the first creaky stair.
“I don’t care what kind of shape it’s in,” I say, more to the house than to her. “This is the one.”
“You sure are a romantic, aren’t you?” she says with a chuckle.
I shoot her a sideways smile. “Mademoiselle, I am French.”
She chuckles and adjusts her clipboard. “Well, believe away. You’ve got no homeowners association to fight with, the work permits are still waiting on town hall, and the plumbing is inconsistent. The place is yours to fix up—or fall through. And with that,”—she hands me the ring of large keys—“I’m officially out of the picture. Good luck, Mr. Rivière.”
The keys sit heavy in my palm. “Merci.”
When she walks back to her car, I take a slow lap around the porch, running my hand along the weathered wood. I imagine it painted deep green. Window boxes spilling over with herbs and flowers. A nice kitchen—a Frenchman needs a proper kitchen—with space for a family-size table, a row of spices, maybe even a dog waiting underfoot for scraps.
This house doesn’t scare me. It feels like a blank page.
It’s Friday afternoon in Maple Falls, a mid-September day, the air is warm, the sidewalks gently cracked. This is the sort of place I used to dream about when the pressure of league games and international press tours became too loud. I’d picture somewhere simple. Somewhere kind.
Somewhere like this.
It's mine, with its crooked roofline and shutters hangingon for dear life. A front porch I plan to sit on until I’m old and creaky and everyone in town forgets I was ever a goalie. The idea that one of Maple Falls’s founders lived here only makes it sweeter. History’s another kind of inheritance, and I’ve never had much of either.
I tuck my hands in my pockets and stroll away from my new home, though it isn’t livable yet, and take in the town of Maple Falls. It’s a postcard come to life.
The sign outside The Glass Olive gleams in the afternoon light, promising upscale Italian food and a wine list that I silently vow to investigate thoroughly.
Farther down is Maple Grounds, where people filter in and out carrying drinks the color of burnt umber and whipped cream, laughter echoing off the awning. The aroma of coffee, sugar, and something distinctly cinnamon wraps around me like a memory. Pumpkin cinnamon rolls. Maple-glazed doughnuts. I make a note to investigate. For cultural reasons.
Across the street there’s Maple Falls Made, windows filled with artisan-made goods and an entire wall dedicated to Ice Breakers gear. My new team. My new life. My name stitched onto an Ice Breakers hoodie one day.
The Bistro is wrapped in a leafy trellis and a board advertising today’s special dessert: crepes with banana and Nutella. My weakness. I pause, nostrils flaring. Nutella is sacred. They could probably lure me into a town council meeting with the smell alone.
I pass a housewares store next—small, tidy, inviting in a quiet way. A woman inside adjusts a display of pepper mills with care.
At the edge of the block, The Rustic Slice lets out a puff of warm, cheesy air as someone pushes through the door. Inside, a family is sharing a pizza bigger than their table,arguing over who gets the last breadstick. I’m tempted to go in, but I’ve already eaten.
Without truly realizing it, I’m looking for her.
The accountant from Town Hall.
I catch myself scanning every table anyway, wondering if she might be sipping tea somewhere, reading a ledger for fun. The memory of her blazer, her posture, her voice… they won’t leave me. She’s not here, of course, but I pull out the business card she indelicately shoved my way. Marcy Fontaine Accounting.
“Excuse me, young man!”
