Page 99 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
Footsteps approach.
“Je suis là,” I hear Mathieu’s reassuring voice and feel him sit beside me. I can feel him watching me.
I can’t open my eyes. Every shift of light is another slice.
He sets a hand on my shoulder.
“Top shelf in my locker. The one with my name on it.” I look at him through squinted eyes. “Little white bottle. Under the tongue.”
Mathieu nods and is gone.
The locker room blurs a little, the fluorescent lights humming too loud. The door creaks again and I glance up.
Marcy stands in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame, her brows drawn. She walks in and bends at my side.
“I’m fine,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound like the lie it is.
She arches one brow. “That’s a hard sell from someone who looks like he’s about to pass out.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Doesn’t make this good.”
Her voice is calm and composed, but her eyes betray her. They’re wide, worried, scanning my face like she’s trying to add it all up.
“You didn’t tell me,” she says with no hint of accusation, and she brushes a lock of hair off my forehead.
I can’t bring myself to look her in the eye. “Didn’t think it would help.”
“Right. You’d just keep up the pretenses. That always works so well.”
The team trainer pokes his head back in. “Doc is on his way. Sit tight.” He disappears again.
Marcy’s fingertips caress my cheeks. “I understand why you wouldn’t tell me, I think,” she says. “But you must feel it too. After the other night, something is different between us.”
When I meet her eyes, seeing her gentle expression, so full of emotion, my body relaxes.
The door opens again—this time it’s the team physician, all calm efficiency and wire-rimmed glasses. Mathieu is right behind him, clutching my small bottle of meds.
“Tiens,” Mathieu murmurs as he kneels beside me, handing over a tab. “Celui-ci devrait t’aider.”
I slip it under my tongue. The taste is bitter, familiar.
The physician steps closer, glancing between us. “Looks like our Frenchman has a fan club.” His voice is teasing, and it breaks some of the tension. He nods to Marcy, then to Mathieu. “Let’s give him some air, folks. I promise to return him in one piece.”
Marcy hesitates, eyes still on me.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, managing a small, uneven smile.
Mathieu offers a polite nod to the doctor, then turns to Marcy. “I’m Mathieu, by the way. You must be Marcy.”
She blinks, then nods. “I—yes.”
“Come,” my old friend says, gesturing toward the hall with a slight bow. “Let’s give your goalie some room.”
As the door swings shut behind them, their voices fade, and I’m left with the hum of the lights, the cooling sweat on my back, and much needed silence.
Except for my thoughts. Those are anything but silent.
