Page 18 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

CLéMENT

T he hallway is narrow, colder than usual, echoing faintly with each cheer from the crowd. I hear the announcer calling names—Jamie, Cade, Weston—and each one is met with another roar, another quake in the floor beneath my skates.

I’m the last, always. Goalie enters at the end, like punctuation. The full stop before the game begins.

I like it that way. It gives me time.

I reach into the inner pocket of my jersey and run my fingers over the edge of a soft, worn square of fabric. It used to be red, now it’s more pink. Initials are embroidered in the corner: MR.

Margaux Rivière.

My mother’s handkerchief.

She used to wave it at my junior games. Every single one. I’d skate out onto the ice, helmet tucked under my arm, and I’d find her instantly, waving that ridiculous little cloth.

She came to every game, no matter the weather, no matter how far she had to travel. Rain or snow, early mornings or doubleheaders, she was always there.

My father was already gone by then, a tragic accident I barely remember and never dared ask the details about. It was just Maman and me for a long time.

And then… it wasn’t.

She got sick my last year in juniors. Hid it from me until the end of the season. By the time I found out, she’d been pretending everything was fine for months.

She died two weeks before my first pro tryout.

The handkerchief has lived in every jersey I’ve ever worn since.

It’s folded carefully and tucked close, an anchor beneath layers of padding. A reminder that I play for more than points. That someone once believed in me so loudly, I never forgot the sound of it.

The announcer calls Carson’s name. The building shudders again.

I close my eyes, breathe in the cold, and whisper in French, “ J'aimerais que tu puisses me voir maintenant, Maman .”

I wish you could see me now, Maman .

Then comes the announcer’s voice. “And in goal tonight, wearing number ninety-five… Clément Rivière!”

I push off the wall and skate forward, into the tunnel, out toward the ice and the lights and the deafening roar.

And then, just as I pass the blue line, the air shifts.

That amazing feeling.

The sound, the light, the thousands of faces blurred into one living, breathing pulse. It’s like standing in the eye of a storm—windless, clear—but you can feel everything swirling just outside the calm.

First game. New team. New town.

Maple Falls may be small, but tonight the energy inside this place is bigger than any Paris arena I’ve ever played in. Like the whole town believes in us.

I skate toward my crease, gloves flexing, eyes scanning the boards like muscle memory. Instinctively, my eyes start scanning across the rows and rows of fans. I can’t help it.

Where’s Marcy?

I know it’s impossible to find her. There are too many faces, too much noise, and I have no idea where she’s sitting. For all I know, she never came. Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she remembered she hates hockey and walked home the second the crowd started chanting.

“ Je t’aime , Frenchie!”

The voice is high and ecstatic and absolutely not Marcy’s. But I turn anyway. Reflex.

A woman with a sign that says Break Me Off a Piece of That Ice Breaker is waving her arms in my direction, nearly taking out her seat neighbor with the sign.

Definitely not Marcy.

But just behind her—two rows back, barely visible between a blur of clapping hands and foam fingers…

There she is.

Sitting still and composed. She’s here.

For one wild, electric second, our eyes meet.

She doesn’t smile, but the corners of her mouth twitch like she’s fighting one.

That’s enough.

A warmth spreads through me, faster than the cold of the arena. I nod once to her and slide into my crease as the music swells and the puck is dropped.

She came.

The game begins.

The first shot comes early. Too early.

I’ve just settled into my stance when the Vikings charge. Their center’s quick, twitchy, likes to fake high and shoot low. I track him, stay patient. Let the puck come to me.

It does.

I drop, blocker low, and feel the thud against my pad. I cover it before it kicks loose.

Whistle. The crowd roars.

I don’t move right away. I’ve learned to stay still after a save. Let them see me calm.

Weston glides past and taps my helmet with his stick.

“Nice eyes, Frenchie,” he mutters. “Didn’t bite once.”

“Of course not,” I say, even though my pulse is still punching the inside of my ribs.

Back on my feet. Another rush. Another shot, this one higher and faster. I glove it clean and toss it to the ref with the smoothest flick I can manage.

Stick taps from Lucian and Asher this time. Carson smacks the back of my leg as he skates past, which in hockey terms is practically a love letter.

They trust me now.

The rest of the game is a blur of movement, muscle, and noise.

I stay locked in, shifting from side to side, reading their plays like a second language.

A few more close calls. Two scrambles. One moment where I think I’ve lost the puck entirely—but then it’s there, right in front of me, and I freeze it with a desperate slide and a little bit of prayer.

Final buzzer.

3–0.

No goals taken. Not one got by me.

It’s my first shutout with the Ice Breakers. I again hear a screeching voice in the stands calling, “ Je t’aime , Frenchie!” and wonder if that’s the only real French expression that made it across the Atlantic.

I hardly have time to straighten before Jamie skates over, grinning like a man who’s got a cigar waiting in the locker room.

“Frenchie,” he exclaims, “you’re a wall!” Then he lifts his stick and taps mine. “You can’t say you’re not doing the bachelor auction now. With that shutout, you are going to single-handedly save the town! Player of the game!”

I don’t get a chance to say anything more before the others crowd in, jostling and shouting, sticks raised in a cluster of proud, chaotic energy.

I grin through it all, heart racing, sweat dripping, adrenaline still spiking behind my eyes.

I glance toward the stands…

But she’s gone.