Page 96 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
I try to flatten my hair and step through the carved wooden doors. The receptionist looks at me with suspicion at first, but the moment I ask if Jeremy Hunt is staying here, she smiles and declares, “Oh! It’s the Frenchie Ice Breaker!” She calls up to Jeremy Hunt’s room and says he has a visitor. Mr. Hunt doesn’t sound convinced based on the back and forth I hear, but the receptionist hangs up and tells me he’s coming.
Jeremy Hunt looks exactly the way I’d expect a representative of a billionaire to look.
“Good day, Mr. Hunt,” I begin and extend my hand.
“I haven’t had my morning coffee yet, so this better be good,” he says even as he extends his hand and shakes mine.
“I’ll be quick.” I suddenly realize I don’t want to be here as much as he doesn’t want to be here either. I have a game coming and a plane to book. I recount the story quickly, that I found the photograph and that it’s important to me for it to return to Victor MacDonald’s heir.
“Sounds fishy.” Mr. Hunt looks me up and down as I hold out the envelope. “Why should I believe this photograph is original? Are you looking for money?”
“No, I just want to give it back.”
“Is this some ploy you’ve cooked up with the Town Hall to make an illegal claim to the town?”
“What? No. I’m French, and I’m heading back to Paris in a couple of days.”
Why did I tell him that? I haven’t told a soul yet, not even my team. Though Jeremy Hunt seems like the last person to make such an announcement. And it’s important to me that he takes the photo.
“I’m being honest,” I say, holding the envelope closer to him. “I have no stake in it. But I suspect your boss would be very disappointed if you did not give this to him.”
That argument seems to work. He takes the envelope and lifts the flap, looking skeptically inside as though there might be a bomb and not an heirloom photograph. He shuts it and looks at me with narrowed eyes.
“I suppose you want me to say thank you.”
“I don’t want you to say anything,” I reply. “I’ve done my part.Bonne journée, monsieur.”
I walk out of the Regent’s feeling lighter. It was a small thing to do, but it was the right thing. Now I have to return to my real life, where the right thing is so hard to know.
There is no right thing. Only what I must do. Even if it feels wrong.
CHAPTER 35
MARCY
It’s just a text. Three words, fifteen characters, one brief tap of my thumb before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Good luck tonight
I hit send and immediately regret it.
The phone rests in my hand. I shouldn’t be waiting like this, heart thumping like I’m twelve again, pacing beside a landline, praying someone calls. I’m not a teenager. I’m a grown woman who kissed a man during sunrise, a man who has won my heart because I could see in his eyes that he felt it as deeply as I did.
My phone buzzes. I fumble to open it.
Clément: Thanks
One word. No emoji. No punctuation. No hint of emotion.
That’s it?
I stare at the screen as if I could find some secret message hidden behind that single syllable. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s with the team, stretching or strategizing, mentally preparing for the game. Maybe he’s trying to get in the zone and doesn’t want distractions.
The pit in my stomach tightens.
Because it felt like more than this. That night and everything about it was quiet and real in a way I can’t explain. And now it’s like trying to hold on to something through a pane of glass.
I slip my phone away, then pull it back out again almost immediately.
