Page 98 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
People near me turn, but I don’t care. Let them stare.
He pulls off his helmet, cradles it against his hip. He shakes his head slowly, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing, a blue handkerchief waving just for him.
“Believe it,” I whisper.
He smiles. He knows I’m here. And he must know what it means.
From my spot so close to the ice, I can now see the exhaustion under his eyes. The strain at the corners of his mouth.
My fingers tighten around the handkerchief as he puts his helmet back on and skates toward the net. The ache in my chest shifts into a deep concern.
He’s fighting something.
CHAPTER 36
CLÉMENT
My pads feel heavier than usual.
The lights glare off the ice like a blade to my skull. I shift in goal, trying to ignore the nausea churning in my stomach. The crowd is roaring and I know what’s expected of me. Mathieu is out there, jet lagged, but I know him. He’s cheering his head off, even louder than usual because I told him my plan.
I’m going back to Paris. Tomorrow.
Seeing Marcy in the crowd nearly broke me in two. The way she was waving a handkerchief of all things, her smile bright even though I’ve been absent since that precious night we shared.
Seeing her in the stands made me want to fight, but the migraine is back.
The world tilts slightly as a skater from the Saskatoon Titans charges toward the net. I shake my head to clear my vision. The puck is there—then gone—then back again. I drop into the butterfly position just in time to block the shot. Mypads make the save, but my body doesn’t recover like it should. My legs feel like jelly.
I push to reset and it’s like skating through mud.
“Get your head in the game, Frenchie!” Jamie shouts, skating past me on a line change.
I nod. At least I try to.
Weston makes a big play, but I couldn’t focus enough to see what happened. It gets the crowd going, which only makes my head worse.
Another play rushes toward me. I spot the puck at the last possible second and drop to my knees again. Pain spikes behind my eyes like broken glass. I make the save, barely, as the player smacks into me with more force than was necessary.
On our side of the ice, Asher is in the face of Jared Winters, a guy he told me he has a long history with, and not the good kind. They’re exchanging words and judging by the look on Asher’s face, things are going downhill fast between them. Asher has become a friend during these past weeks, one of the few on the team I can open up to, and I can’t let him ruin his reputation with this waste of space.
I skate over, because goalies have the ability to split guys up better than others. I think it’s the pads.
“Break it up!” I shout, despite how it hurts in my head.
Jared Winters, who’d been pounding on Asher, turns to me and shoves. Hard. I didn’t see it coming.
Suddenly everyone is around us, the fight breaking out big time, and my head bounces against the ice.
That’s when everything tilts.
I don’t remember falling, just the cold of the ice and the sound of the whistle. I can’t get up. I wait as the fight subsides, knowing somewhere in my mind that I’m about to become the center of attention.
Then come hands. Hands on my shoulders, at my helmet, voices calling my name. A medic’s face swims into view. I’m being lifted, dragged toward the bench, then down a corridor. I sense our backup goalie, Lucas McCain, coming down the tunnel to take over for me in the net.
The roar of the arena fades behind me.
The locker room is quiet except for the click of cleats on tile and the occasional buzz of a walkie. I’m sitting on the bench, doubled over, head in my hands.
