Page 97 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
I have to find the right words to say. About how this fits, we fit. We fit in the practical way that speaks to who I am. We complement each other. His boldness doesn’t overwhelm me anymore; it sparks me. My caution doesn’t bore him; it centers him. It’s the kind of alignment I didn’t know I was allowed to hope for. I’ve spent so long building a life on structure and independence, I forgot that it’s possible to have someone fill in the gaps, to let me breathe a little easier.
The phone buzzes in my hand and I jump a little at the surprise.
Clement: Know that whatever happens, the other night with you meant everything.
I read it once. Then again.
Then a third time, slower.
Whatever happens?
That’s not what you say when everything is fine. That’s athank you for the memoriesmessage. A quiet exit. A door gently clicking shut.
I hold the phone to my chest. My breath is shallow, pulse loud in my ears.
I know he cares. That night was real. Every look, every laugh, every lingering second that stretched into morning. He’s not stepping back because he feels nothing. He’s stepping back because something’s wrong.
He’s trying to protect me from whatever it is, but he doesn’t have to. Once Marcy Fontaine is in, she’sall in.
The arena is loud, buzzing, alive—but I feel different this time.
I’m here for the man behind the mask, the one who kissed me while the sun painted the world in gold and coral. The one who left in a blur and has haunted every breath since.
I had to come.
From my spot in the second row, middle of the ice on the side facing the tunnel where the team will emerge, I rub my palms against the soft cotton in my pocket. A handkerchief, the only one I own. I’m not sure what made me bring it, but I know what I want it to say.
I’m here. I’ll be here. Give us a chance.
The announcer’s voice booms through the arena, and names start spilling out: Jamie Hayes, Cade Lennox, Weston Smith. The crowd erupts with each one, applause and cheers ricocheting off every surface. Faces light up. Jerseys are raised. Lights flash.
But I’m not looking at the ice. I’m searching the tunnel. The one that leads to the goalie.
To Clément.
The seconds stretch too long. My knees bounce and myhands are clammy again. I press the handkerchief to my lips and whisper his name, like that might summon him.
Then he appears.
Fully suited. Stick in hand. Helmet already on. All business, his strides smooth and sure. The crowd cheers, but I don’t register it. I rise to my feet, my hand hesitating in the air.
Then I start waving. Small at first. Timid. Like he might not see me at all.
What if he doesn’t?
What if I’m just a face in a blur of thousands?
He glides toward the crease. Still not looking up. He’s in the zone. That’s what I tell myself, even as disappointment threatens to curl inward.
But then, slowly, his head turns.
His body stills. He scans the rows and my heart jumps.
Then his eyes land on me.
I don’t know how I know, but I do. His posture changes and he comes to a complete stop on the ice. Lifts his glove, shades his eyes against the glare even with the helmet still on. I shout his name, “Clément!” and wave like I’m trying to land a plane, the handkerchief flapping wildly in my hand. “Clément!”
He sees me.
