Page 24 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

MARCY

T he rocking chair on my porch is one of my favorite spots. With my laptop perched on my knees, I hear the creak of the floorboard I’ve come to associate with either goat-shaped trouble or Angel.

It’s Angel.

She doesn’t say anything. Just extends an arm and cocks her head.

“Come on,” she says, in that deceptively sweet tone that makes you feel like you’re being recruited for either a community bake sale or a covert mission behind enemy lines.

“I’m busy,” I argue, though I’m already putting my laptop down.

“You haven’t left that screen in four days.”

“Not true,” I mutter. “I walked to the barn yesterday.”

She hooks her arm through mine and leads me toward the chicken coop.

The autumn air has that crisp, bitey quality I love all the more so when it’s mingled with the various scents of outdoors and farm life.

By the coop, there’s a wheelbarrow full of something vaguely hay-adjacent, a rake that’s seen better decades, and the sharp, unmistakable scent of poultry in the wind .

Angel grabs a rake and a strange-looking tool and hands me a second pair of gloves. We start working without a word.

At first, I’m grateful for the silence. Then I realize it’s too silent. Angel is never this quiet. I’m standing within a couple feet of her and I can hear birds.

I stop mid-rake, turn, and squint at her. She doesn’t even look up.

“What?” she says, all innocence.

I lean on my rake. “You’ve been quiet for twenty minutes. You’re never quiet for twenty minutes. I know you want to talk to me. You want to ask me about Maple Fest or Clément or my very healthy, totally normal decision to become a hermit for a week, and you’re just waiting for me to crack.”

Angel places her coop-tool—whatever it is—on the edge of the wheelbarrow and gives me a look . “Okay. Tell me more.”

“About what?”

She lifts an eyebrow.

I sigh. Loudly. “Fine. It’s the bachelor auction tonight.”

Angel says nothing. She just crosses her arms and leans on the wheelbarrow with a grunt.

“Look, I get it. I know the town needs money. I’m not some cold-hearted finance robot who doesn’t understand fundraising.

But the whole thing feels like a disaster waiting to happen.

Women throwing money at eligible bachelors in a tiny town where everyone knows everyone?

That’s not fundraising, that’s social dynamite. ”

Another “hmmm” from her.

“And okay, yes , maybe I took it personally. Clément told me—or at least he implied—that he wasn’t doing it. And then I find out, in the middle of Maple Fest, and from someone else, when I’ve just let my guard down for maybe five minutes around him? Come on. ”

Angel says nothing, her neutral expression giving nothing away.

“And maybe I would’ve understood why he agreed. Maybe. If he had actually told me. But no, he had to stand there looking surprised like a kid who forgot his own birthday, and then look wounded when I walked away.”

I take a breath.

“I know what you’re going to say. You and Scotty think he’s the best thing since sourdough starter. And I’m not saying he’s not . He’s kind, and funny, and absurdly good with goats, and apparently loved his mother more than anyone I’ve ever met loves anything. But…”

I swallow. This part is hard to say out loud.

“But I’ve been on high alert since the day I met him.

Because am I seriously going to go that route again?

A hockey player? On top of it, a French hockey player with dimples and opinions about butter?

That’s textbook heartache waiting to happen.

And I’ve already done heartache, thank you very much. ”

“I see.”

That’s all she says.

No lecture. No sermon in the hay. Just that maddeningly calm “I see.”

I huff, crossing my arms even though they’re covered in chicken-coop grime. “What does that mean?”

She shrugs. “Means you’ve thought about him a lot.”

“I have not ,” I lie.

She levels me with a look. “Marcy.”

I groan, tossing my gloves into the wheelbarrow. “Fine. Maybe he didn’t tell me because he didn’t know how. Or maybe he thought I’d judge him. Or maybe it all happened so fast he didn’t get a chance and then Jamie shot his mouth off and…” I trail off, jaw clenched. “Ugh. ”

Angel watches me quietly.

“Okay. Let’s say I do see him again. Maybe I just—ask. Like a normal person. ‘Hey, why didn’t you tell me about the auction?’ That’s not crazy, right?”

Angel tilts her head. “You just ranted for fifteen minutes, accused an entire sport of being emotionally bankrupt, and now you only want to ask him a question?”

“Don’t throw logic around, please,” I mutter.

Angel chuckles, then turns back to the coop. “There’s more if you want, but it will show itself in time.”

I squint at her. “Wait. Weren’t you going to tell me something? You’re the one who dragged me out here.”

She glances over her shoulder, a smile tugging at one side of her mouth. “Turns out, I don’t need to say much.” And with that, she gets back to work, content in the mess, while I’m left standing there—dusty, emotionally wrung out, and maybe ready to talk to Clément Rivière.

“Okay, I’ll talk to him.” I sigh and start gathering my emotional courage. This needs to be done. I can’t leave things this way. I’ve been hiding out in the cabin for so long, I’m craving a cupcake. “Thanks for the talk, Angel.”

She smiles. “Anytime. Oh yeah, and I forgot to tell you I got you a ticket for the bachelor auction. You’re coming with Scotty and me. Look sharp.”