Page 14 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)
CLéMENT
I tuck in my shirt for the third time before climbing off the bike, swearing softly in French as the bandage on my palm shifts.
It’s nothing, just a kiss from my own hammer.
Again. I was fixing the doorframe in the kitchen this morning, dreaming about the crown molding I’ll probably never get up, when I saw her in my mind—Marcy, curled up with a book under the window I haven’t finished sanding yet—and that’s when the hammer reminded me to concentrate.
So now I have a bruise on my ego and a hand that smells faintly of antiseptic.
The house is my dream project. Hockey is still my purpose.
But Marcy is the one I never planned for. The one that sneaked under my skin and started rearranging my priorities when I wasn’t looking.
Blue and white spotlights fan the sky in wide arcs as I walk up to the arena. Fortunately, the rain cleared, because showing up soggy to an inaugural bash was never a good look.
There are newly strung icicle lights and a shimmering banner that reads Ice Breakers Inaugural Bash – Welcome to Maple Falls.
Outside, a red carpet flanked by hay bales and seasonal mums leads guests toward the entrance, where the distant pulse of jazz hints that this night is going to be anything but ordinary.
I adjust my collar, try to flatten my hair, and step toward the doors.
The place is full inside. Everyone in Maple Falls must be here, and if the population is ten thousand, I’m guessing nine thousand are in this lobby alone.
The chandelier above me is a monster of glass, probably visible from space.
I spot my teammates near the champagne tower. Weston’s in a navy suit he’s definitely rented. Lucian’s already removed his tie and unbuttoned two buttons like we’re in a 1970s crime drama. They see me and nod, subtle and cool.
I’m not subtle. I’m still rubbing my hand and searching the crowd for one woman.
I tell myself I’m just being polite, but if she walks through those doors, I might forget how to speak entirely.
“ Oh la la ,” I mutter. “Where did they find that chandelier? It could crush a man.”
“Probably has,” Weston says, appearing at my shoulder with a flute of champagne. “So, lover boy who skipped the Drench. You planning to keep standing in the middle of the room like a statue or are you gonna circulate like a person?”
Lucian joins us on the other side, all long limbs and effortless swagger. “He’s scanning for the ranch accountant he’s so intent on winning over,” he says, already smirking. “Saw it the second we walked in.”
I scowl. “I am not scanning. I am observing. ”
Weston lifts a brow. “Observing with your mouth slightly open.”
“I am also breathing,” I say. “Very normal human function.”
He ignores me and reaches up to adjust my bow tie, which I hadn’t realized was crooked until he yanks it tighter.
“I’m more accustomed to a cravat,” I say, brushing his hands away. “This... ribbon around my throat feels like a fashion noose.”
“Welcome to America, mon ami ,” Lucian says, clinking his glass against mine. “Where we dress up like we’re going to prom, but still serve meatballs on toothpicks.”
Which reminds me, I haven’t eaten.
We migrate toward the buffet table, which, from a distance, had appeared promising. Up close, it’s more of a disappointment. Delicate stacks of cucumber on smaller-than-average crackers. Tiny skewers of things that are allegedly food but resemble modern art sculptures.
“Do I need tweezers for this?” I ask, poking at a truffle puff that could comfortably fit inside a contact lens case.
“Like expensive air,” Weston mutters.
Lucian grabs one, shrugs, and pops it in his mouth. “Tastes like something my dad would serve.”
Weston scans the room. “Where’s the real food?”
Then I see it.
Across the room, slightly off-center but commanding attention with its own sort of glory, is a side table stacked with cupcakes. They look like little miracles, frosted with perfect swirls of deep blue and white, each topped with the Ice Breakers logo in edible silver.
I walk toward them like I’ve just spotted the Eiffel Tower after a year in the countryside.
“Oh, no,” Weston says behind me. “We’ve lost him. ”
“Didn’t even say goodbye,” Lucian adds.
“Look at them,” I say in awe. “They’re magnificent.”
“Pretty sure those are for the kids.”
“There are no children here.”
“Exactly.”
I ignore them. My hand hovers over the nearest cupcake, its frosting gleaming like temptation itself, when a woman in a red dress with a black apron steps out from behind the display.
She has an amused look on her face and a tray of freshly frosted reinforcements balanced effortlessly on one hand.
“Careful,” she says. “Those ones are still drying.”
I freeze, mid-reach. “Drying?”
“Edible glitter,” she explains, setting down the tray. “Takes a minute to set, otherwise you’ll end up looking like a disco ball.”
“Sounds like an improvement,” I say. “How many of these am I allowed to take before it’s considered a scene?”
“That depends,” she says with a grin. “Are you famous?”
I glance around theatrically. “Only in France.”
She laughs. “I’m Emmy. My friend, Neesha, made these gorgeous creations. And I hereby appoint you my unofficial celebrity spokesperson for cupcake enthusiasm.”
I place a hand on my chest. “It would be an honor. I will give them the dignity they deserve.”
From behind me, Weston groans. “Is Frenchie flirting with the cupcake lady now?”
These guys will never let me get over this ridiculous reputation. “I am only flirting with the cupcake itself.”
“Good,” Lucian snorts. “Because the kind lady behind the counter already has a hockey boyfriend. You, however, are definitely going to end up with frosting on your tux. ”
Emmy shrugs, unfazed. “It happens more than you’d think.”
“I accept the risk,” I say, and reach for one of the slightly set cupcakes at the edge of the tray.
The frosting is firm, cool to the touch. The first bite is everything I hoped for—vanilla, cream, sugar, the tiniest crunch of silver glitter between my teeth.
I close my eyes. “American cuisine. Underestimated and glorious.”
Emmy grins and steps back. “I’ll save you a couple for the road.”
“ Oh la la, que c’est bon ,” I say with my eyes closed and hear a few chuckles around me. When I open my eyes, Weston and Lucian are watching me with identical expressions of disbelief. “What?” I say, licking a smudge of frosting from my thumb. “You have champagne. I have priorities.”
Lucian’s eyes drop to my hand as I reach for another cupcake.
“Hey,” he points at the bandage, “what happened to your hand? You fight a baguette and lose?”
I glance down at the bandage, flexing my fingers. “The baguette was an easy adversary. The hammer, less so. It won.”
Weston raises an eyebrow. “Still the house stuff?”
I nod. “It’s not getting any better.”
“Seems you need my help more than I thought!” Lucian takes a sip of champagne and tilts his head. “We can’t have our goalie smashing himself in before our first game.”
“Too true.” I take a big bite of cupcake and ponder whether anyone would notice if I took a third one.
I suspect they might. “She’s a tough one, but she’s truly lived.
I love her structure and she’s got amazing bones.
I just need to find a way to—quite literally—break down her walls without causing damage. ”
“You talk about that house like it’s your girlfriend.”
“ Non ,” I say, smiling. “The house is older, more stubborn, and far more forgiving.”
He laughs. “So you do love it.”
“I do,” I say without hesitation. “That house is everything I imagined when I was a kid.”
Lucian’s eyebrows go up. “You dreamed of buying a rundown American fixer-upper as a child in Paris?”
“ Oui ,” I say. “An old house on a quiet street. A big porch. Maple trees. Maybe a dog. And a woman who calls me out when I talk too much. The kind with sharp eyes and a laugh she doesn’t give away easily.
Maybe have a couple of bilingual kids who think baseball is confusing and eat croissants with peanut butter. ”
Weston whistles low. “That’s… oddly specific.”
“I watched a lot of American films,” I say. “The kind with denim jackets and Fourth of July parades. And I always imagined I’d live in one of those little towns where everyone knows your name, where you fix up an old house with your hands, and?—”
“—marry the small-town librarian?” Lucian offers.
“Or the accountant,” I say before I can stop myself.
They both stare at me. I grab another cupcake and pretend not to notice. The last thing I need is them teasing me when this feels like it just might be real.