Page 12 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

CLéMENT

T he beret itches.

It’s not even mine—it’s a prop our social media manager, Clara, found in a box and thrust at me like I was supposed to feel emotionally connected to it.

It smells old. I tug it down over my ears, hoping it hides the fact that my soul is slowly leaving my body.

I adjust myself on the ice, feeling exposed without all my goalie pads.

I don’t mind showing off my goalie tricks, like the fancy one I dubbed “The French Kiss,” or even reciting poetry.

But when it’s just me… it feels strange.

I bet no one here would ever believe it. That’s the problem with having a reputation and a persona to uphold.

Behind the phone camera, Clara flaps her hand. “Perfect, Clément! Now give us one of those smoldering looks! The fans love that.”

Smoldering. I haven’t even had my coffee.

Instead of scowling, which I’d prefer, I lean against the rink boards. My smirk’s a little crooked—I can feel it—but it works. I know it works. That’s the problem. Clara squeals behind the lens like she’s directing a perfume commercial.

I blow out a breath through my nose and mutter, “I should be at the ranch.”

“What?” Clara calls, stepping in and adjusting my shoulders so I’m facing sideways.

“Nothing.”

I’d rather be wrangling Edgar the goat or sweeping out the barn at Happy Horizons.

At least when the animals stare at you, it’s not because they want to follow you on social media.

Ever since he hurt himself, Scotty has tasks for me—carry feed, fix a broken latch, hold a chicken that looks like it wants revenge for a crime I haven’t committed yet.

No cameras. No berets.

“You know,” Clara starts, and I’ve come to recognize that tone of voice. It means she’s going to try to convince me to do something I don’t want to do. “You’d really be great at the Drench for Defense event. A goalie getting soaked? Who wouldn’t love that?”

“Not a chance.” I appreciate that everyone is coming out of the woodwork with fundraising ideas, but I’ll sooner buy up all the cupcakes at the bake sale than let anyone show off my pecs for money.

“It’s for a great cause, and online they’d love?—”

“ Mademoiselle Clara , it is a no.”

“Okay, okay,” Clara chips as she sets up the phone for another shot. “In that case, blow a kiss to the camera!” Clara chirps.

“Let me offer you something even better.” I grin a little to soften it, then give a wink instead. One wink. No more. Any more and I’ll need hazard pay.

“Very nice, Clément. So French.”

“Hey, Frenchie,” Cade calls from behind the benches. “ Better pace yourself. Bachelor auction’s gonna need all the charm you’ve got.”

I glance over my shoulder. He’s lounging like a man with too much energy and not enough supervision, tapping his stick against the bench in a slow rhythm.

“Not a chance I’m doing any auction,” I say immediately.

Cade grins. “Come on, man. You’re the star import. The ladies’ll lose their minds.”

“I am not for sale.”

“You’re not doing the Drench, so at least do the auction. It’s to raise money for the town.”

“Still not for sale.”

He laughs and tosses a puck into the air, catching it without looking. “Just imagine it—dim lights, dramatic music, and you strutting out like a Parisian James Bond. The crowd goes wild. Someone offers ten grand for a dinner date and a signed puck.”

“I love America,” I say. “But I cannot bring myself to do it.”

“You afraid no one’ll bid?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m afraid someone will .”

That shuts him up for a second. Then he shrugs. “Fair.”

I tug the beret off and toss it gently onto the nearest folding chair. “Auctioning myself off like a steak at a butcher’s counter, that’s where I draw the line.”

“But you’ll wink at the camera?”

“Winking is free.”

Clara’s fussing with her phone, and Cade’s now ranking who’s going to fetch the most bids like it’s fantasy football. This is my chance to make a break for it.

“Have a good one, Frenchie.” Cade grins again, but I’m already walking toward the locker room. I need to check in with Scotty later, maybe help mend that fence behind the goat pen. Edgar’s been eyeing it like he’s plotting a jailbreak.

The word has hardly finished forming in my head before the flicker hits.

Not a flicker, really—more like a filament of light slicing the corner of my vision. Thin, electric, sharp. I blink, hoping it’s a trick of the arena lights, maybe the reflection off someone’s stick tape or the spotlight hitting the plexiglass just right.

But it isn’t.

The pressure follows, blooming behind my right eye. Dull at first, but unmistakable. It’s an ache that doesn’t stay put, but spreads, slow and heavy. I grip the edge of the bench without thinking, grounding myself while my brain rearranges itself into that awful, familiar rhythm.

“You good?” Cade asks. His tone is still easy, but concern has crept in. He sees something.

I straighten up, forcing the tightness in my jaw to ease. “ Oui , all good. Just… a sudden craving for a sensory deprivation tank.” I tack on a crooked smile. “You know. Very French of me.”

He snorts. “You look like you just got bad news from your optometrist.”

“Or maybe it’s the social media comments,” I say dryly. “Someone called me ‘the human croissant.’ I’ve been spiraling ever since.” That gets a laugh, but his eyes still narrow. I wave him off with a casual hand. “Go tape your stick, mon ami . I’m fine.”

I stroll away and wait until he’s out of earshot before I let out a long sigh. I’m not fine.

This is how it always begins: the shimmer, the pressure, the way my vision blurs at the edges like someone smeared fog across the lens of my life. Sometimes I get lucky and it passes with a couple of ibuprofens and a lie-down in a dark room. Sometimes, it doesn’t.

The first one hit in Lyon, about two years ago.

I chalked it up to travel, maybe screen fatigue, maybe nerves before playoffs.

But then came another. And another. They started showing up like uninvited guests.

Once every few months became every few weeks.

But they are starting to become more frequent.

My coach told me it was stress. My teammates offered water bottles and protein bars and told me to sleep more.

I knew it was more than that. I saw a specialist. He ran all the tests, shrugged in that infuriating way doctors do when they’re out of answers, and handed me a diagnosis as if it were nothing.

Migraines. No cure. Only management.

I was told to track my triggers. To avoid flashing lights, noise, wine, caffeine, stress, overexertion, strong smells, under-sleeping, over-sleeping, hunger, weather changes, screens, and too much emotion. I can give it all up but for the coffee. That’s a no-go zone.

I thought—naively, maybe—that coming to America would help. A new place. A slower rhythm in Maple Falls. Maybe my brain would forget whatever it thought it was doing and leave me in peace.

And to be fair, it has been better. No attacks during practice. None during games. So far, the migraine monster has kept its distance where it matters most. But the fear is always there. Lurking.

Because the moment I feel that shimmer in my vision, the second the pain starts to build, I wonder: what if this one doesn’t wait? What if it shows up mid-save, mid-shift, under the lights and in front of the crowd?

So I manage. I keep pills in my duffel. I drink the water. I fake the ease. I haven’t told anyone here, not even Weston. I don’t want them looking at me like I’m counting down to collapse.

No one needs to know unless they need to know.

I close my eyes, massage my temples, and take a breath that feels more like a truce than a fix.

It’ll pass. I hope.

Besides, there’s a goat waiting for me. Edgar, at least, never asks questions.

When I get to Happy Horizons, Marcy is by the corral, deep in conversation with one of the volunteers, flipping through a binder and pointing with the tip of her pen.

From this distance, I can’t hear a word she’s saying, but her expression tells a story on its own.

Focused, a little exasperated, completely in control.

For the past ten days, I’ve seen her here, and each time she’s been a little different. Yesterday she was crouched in the hay beside a kid, showing him how to bottle-feed a lamb. The day before, she was on the porch with Ashlyn Thompkins, pacing in tight circles and muttering about land use codes.

She’s got range, this woman.

I came here to help with chores. But I keep catching myself watching her instead, wondering what keeps her so driven, and how it would feel to know what she’s like when she isn’t carrying the weight of saving a town.

I don’t know her well, but something about her sticks.

When she finishes with the volunteer, she lifts her head and catches me staring. I feel heat climbing up my neck and suddenly wish I was somewhere else, except that looking into her eyes feels so natural.

Her eyes narrow, and it’s obvious she’s off. Are those bags under her eyes? How have I not noticed them over the past week? I was too struck by her, a deer in headlights, but has she been suffering?

I swear a cloud comes over her face as she marches in my direction, and I’m suddenly terrified. I have exactly zero idea what she is about to do. The migraine is abating, but I feel a stomachache coming on.

She stops two feet in front of me, chin high and hands on hip, little huffs coming out of her mouth before she finally speaks.

“Let me guess, you’re going to show off your soaking wet pecs to the world and then be sold to the highest bidder?”

A smile blooms inside me, but I can’t let her see it.

I’m starting to melt the Ice Queen of Maple Falls.