Page 23 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

CLéMENT

T hird period.

We’re down by one and the Barracudas are hungry.

They’re fast—annoyingly fast—and they don’t let up. Every play feels like it’s coming half a second too quick, every slapshot launched with a personal vendetta. My pads sting. My breath clouds the cage of my helmet. Sweat drips down the back of my neck and soaks into the collar of my jersey.

I squat in the crease, muscles coiled, eyes scanning for the next attack.

But a part of me is somewhere else. Wherever Marcy is.

Before the puck dropped, I scanned the stands. Left to right, top row to rinkside, hoping—no, needing —to see that flash of dark hair, that narrowed gaze she gets when she pretends she’s not impressed.

She’s not here. I’ve looked for her every game this week, since the debacle at Maple Fest.

I told her I wouldn’t do the auction. I’d looked her right in the eyes and let her believe I wasn’t that guy. Then Jamie opened his big mouth, and now not only does she know that I’m getting sold off, but she also thinks I’m a liar. Which, by omission, I kind of am.

The thing is, I’m not that guy. But I’m also trying to make a life in America with a new team and support a cause we all believe in, including Marcy. Saving Maple Falls.

I should have just told her.

The puck slams off the boards behind me and I snap back into the moment. One of their wings, number 91, picks it up on the rebound and charges the net. I go low, spread wide. He fakes left, goes right, but I catch it with my blocker and kick the rebound out to Cade.

“Nice save, Frenchie,” Cade shouts, skating backward into coverage.

I nod, but my stomach’s in knots.

Why didn’t I just tell her ?

Because I was ashamed.

Because the moment I got involuntary volunteered by Jamie, it was like I was still seventeen and afraid to say no to the cool kids.

So many times this past week I’ve wanted to head over to Happy Horizons, give Edgar a pat, hang with Scotty, and pray for a chance to see Marcy so that I could try to explain.

Thing is, I don’t have the words for it. She’s not wrong. I made that decision all on my own, and I am a grown man.

We reset. Faceoff in our zone.

Nate Simpson is acting strange. He’s an Ice Breaker, but I could swear he’s leaving Lucian way too exposed. Word is that he’s had a chip on his shoulder the size of Canada and is still skating like he thinks he's above the game, despite being on our team.

Suddenly there’s a massive sound that echoes through the rink like a dropped cymbal. Lucian is down. I bolt forward in the crease before I remember I’m supposed to stay put.

What is happening to our team?

The look Lucian gives Nate as he passes him… well, let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that.

As for me, I’m shaking with fury in my pads. If I weren’t in net, I might’ve gone after Nate myself.

But we play on.

We fight back. Carson manages a goal halfway through the period, tying it up, and for a heartbeat we have momentum again.

Then the Barracudas come back. Hard.

My pulse is hammering. I can’t tell if it’s from the game or the fury still burning in my gut from seeing Lucian get hit.

Two minutes later, another turnover. They’re moving this way, a breakaway I almost stop.

Almost.

The puck whirrs past me and it’s 3-2.

And there goes the final buzzer.

I slump in the crease, glove hanging loose, watching as the Barracudas celebrate like they just won the Stanley Cup. My teammates skate off with shoulders stiff and jaws tight.

I peel off my helmet and close my eyes, even as Lucian skates over and taps my shoulder, telling me it wasn’t my fault.

It was. It was absolutely my fault.

“Again,” I bark, dropping into position.

Asher’s already circling back with another puck. He lines it up. Fires.

I block it with the edge of my right pad.

We’ve got games all this week before the Bachelor Auction on Friday, and I’m thankful for the distraction.

Evening games, daytime practices, fitting in a little DIY where I can since I’ve finally convinced Mathieu to come to Maple Falls in about ten days’ time.

I’m doing everything not to think about Marcy.

“Again,” I say before the puck’s even stopped spinning.

Asher raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Another shot. This one’s high—glove side. I snag it out of the air and hurl it to the boards.

Not cleanly. Sloppy.

Useless.

“Again.”

This is the second hour of working on shots. Or third? I don’t know anymore. I lost track after my second water bottle and the sting of my shoulders stopped registering.

All I know is I haven’t seen her in a week, and it’s showing in my game.

It just keeps getting worse—I miss her, and it’s affecting my skills . My rhythm’s off. My reads are slow. In the last two games, I gave up goals I would’ve eaten alive a month ago. I’ve been lucky enough not to get a single headache, but seems my heart is causing just as much trouble.

Sure, we won two out of three games this past week—but I didn’t earn those results. Not the way I should have.

Asher circles. Shoots again.

This time I track it clean. Pad save. Rebound cleared.

Hockey is who I am. This is what brought me across the ocean. I can't lose this too.

The next shot slips past my blocker and rattles the net .

“ Purée !” I shout. “ Encore .”

Asher glides over, stick slung across his shoulders, brows drawn low.

“Okay,” he says. “That one was on me. Maybe. But you’re cracking, man. What’s going on with you?”

“Shoot again,” I say, snapping my mask back down.

“Nope.” He taps his stick against the ice like a gavel. “Time out. You’ve been acting like your brain’s on fire since the Barracudas game. You’ve barely said more than two words to the team. Now you’re out here asking me to turn you into Swiss cheese.”

I stay crouched. “Hit me again.”

“Clément, what’s going on?”

“Asher,” I snap. “ Shoot. ”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he skates in closer and I snap.

I rip off my blocker and toss it down. My mask follows, clattering across the ice like a dropped plate. I hold on to my stick, but it trembles in my grip as I stand up straight for the first time in what feels like hours.

“You want to know what’s going on?” I shout to the universe more than Asher. “ Everything is going on. That’s what.”

He doesn’t say anything, just watches, arms crossed, waiting.

“I’ve been playing like a useless twig,” I spit. “My reads are slow, my head’s a mess, I can’t stay in the zone for more than five minutes at a time without thinking about her .”

My voice catches, but I push through.

“She hasn’t called. She hasn’t come by. Not even a message. Nothing. And you know what? Fine. Maybe I deserve that. But what am I supposed to do, huh? Sit around and mope like some melancholic prince? ”

I gesture wildly, skating in tight circles like I can outpace the ache.

“So I come out here. I work. I grind. I block and sweat and bruise myself because it’s the only thing I can control right now. I don’t even have a permit to continue working on my house! Hockey brought me here. To this country. To this team. To everything. And I’m losing it.”

I finally stop, panting.

“I’ve got two days before I have to move out of the condo, and the house looks like a disaster zone. Never mind that I’m alone. The girl I was falling for— really falling for—wants nothing to do with me.”

My stick drops.

“It’s all falling apart. And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know which dream I’m supposed to chase anymore because right now it feels like they’re all circling the drain.”

Asher places a hand on my shoulder.

“Buddy,” he says. “That’s a lot.”

I laugh. Or maybe choke. I can’t tell the difference. “I know,” I mutter. “I know it is.”

For a second, I think I’m fine. Then the tears hit me like a punch. Asher doesn’t flinch.

“Hey, you ever heard of integration?” he asks gently.

I frown, sniff once, swipe my wrist across my nose. “Are you trying to say I’m not American enough?”

Asher lets out a bark of laughter that echoes off the rafters. “No, man. I mean psychological integration . You’re living two lives. There’s the guy you show to everyone—Frenchie. The smooth talker. The cupcake king. The guy with a wink and a smile for every situation.”

I wince, but… he’s not wrong.

“And then there’s this guy,” he says, tapping my chest lightly with the butt of his stick. “The one who’s losing sleep over a girl because he feels things. The guy who wants more than just to be some hotshot goalie with fast reflexes and a charming accent.”

This is hitting awfully close to home.

“You’re trying to live as both. But you’re treating them like they can’t touch. Like you can’t be the real you and still chase this dream.”

I stare down at my gloves on the ice.

“I thought…” I clear my throat. “I thought I had to be that guy. The one they want. The American version of a goalie. A little cocky. A little bulletproof.”

“You ever think they just want you to be you ?” Asher says.

I have no words. He just swallowed mine whole.

Back in France, it was always hockey. Morning, noon, midnight—if I wasn’t on the ice, I was thinking about it.

After my mother died, it became my lifeline.

My way out. My reason. I told myself there was no time for anything else—not dating, not settling down.

I was married to the game. Every decision I made was filtered through the question: Will this get me closer to the league?

Now, I’m here. I’ve made it further than most. I should feel proud. But instead, I feel like someone cracked my chest open and rearranged the parts. I want more. Not less hockey—but more life. More meaning. I want someone to know the whole of me, not just the part I let show.

And I don’t know who I am if I’m not chasing one single goal at the expense of everything else.

I nod slowly. “I didn’t know I was doing it.”

“I know, and for what it’s worth, you’re definitely not the only one,” he says, stepping back. “It sneaks up on you. One day you’re adjusting for the locker room. The next day, you’re a caricature. ”

I laugh weakly. “So you’re saying I’m the French cartoon in my own story?”

“Well, you’re certainly dramatic enough.”

I grin at that. We start skating toward the edge of the rink, side by side.

“Thanks, man,” I say quietly. “Really.”

“Anytime. But you’re buying the next round of protein shakes.”

I snort. “Fine. But I’m adding a croissant.”

He points at me. “Only if it’s whole wheat.”

I cover my eyes. “Blasphemy.”

We laugh, and at least for a minute, it doesn’t feel like everything is caving in.