Page 29 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

CLéMENT

I hold my spot in the crease. It’s a regular practice and I’m in my net. My second home. Even if last night’s bachelor auction nearly knocked me sideways, this practice should be like any other.

But I can’t concentrate.

First, I finally cornered the mayor after the auction. At last, I was going to get an answer about my permit.

Except it wasn’t the answer I wanted.

“You’re going to have to wait until we figure out this billionaire problem,” Mayor Thompkins said. “That house is the MacDonald house, as you heard tonight, and it may very well get pulled out from under you if this heir makes his claim.”

I might lose the house before I even really have it.

Cade sends a puck my way, high into the corner, but I swat it back easily. The rest of the team scrimmages at the other end of the ice.

That gives me time to think about Marcy’s text this morning.

Marcy: So what do you want to do tonight?

Me: You get to decide, remember?

Marcy: In that case, be prepared for anything.

Anything ? I can’t imagine her taking me bungee jumping, but then again, this is our first date.

The puck slams against the boards and I file date night thoughts for later. My head is thrumming with the low vibrations of what is sure to become a bad, bad headache.

The distraction of the ice seems to keep it at bay, but my game is suffering.

My skates screech as I stop short in front of the net, sweat sliding down the back of my neck. The puck I was meant to block clinks against the boards, and Jamie doesn’t even try to hide the groan.

“Again,” I call out.

He hesitates. “You sure, Frenchie?”

I’m not sure at all, but I nod anyway. “ Oui . Again.”

He fires. I move late. The puck slips past my glove and clangs off the post.

Another miss.

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, tapping the blade of my stick against the ice like it owes me.

My head feels like it’s packed with static, every breath threaded with pain. It’s bad at night and even worse in the morning. Have I already pushed it too far?

I yank off my helmet, pressing the cool plastic to my forehead. Across the ice, Asher is watching me. He doesn’t say anything .

I know how I look. The golden boy goalie, falling apart one shaky glove save at a time.

When practice ends, I head straight to Weston’s condo, hoping to avoid questions I don’t want to answer.

I’m a man with a house I can’t live in. My best friend is coming to town in two days and I don’t even have a place to put him up.

Add that I’m a man with a career I’ve built since I was ten years old—coming apart in my own hands.

I flop on the sofa and stare at the ceiling.

Then there’s a woman who makes me feel like myself.

Like I belong, not just to her, but to this place.

To this small town with its maple trees and its unpredictable goats and its second chances.

The woman I have a date with tonight. I don’t care how people chuckled and shook their heads about it.

I could never bear to go out with anyone except her.

But on top of that is the offer from France.

That call from Jules plays again in my head. He sent me a text this morning:

Jules: Come home, mon gars. Start fresh. You’ll make your mark in building a new team.

Something new. Something safe. Something slower.

Something where I’m not risking the last threads of my vision, my coordination, and my career every time I get on the ice.

That’s the thing no one tells you about dreams. When you’re chasing them, they feel inevitable, but when you feel them slipping away… they start to feel like obligations.

I came here to be the best. I came here to prove that a French goalie could make it in the American leagues. That I could take everything I’d lost and make it meaningful.

Now I’m just tired .

And my date with Marcy—the one bright spot, the one thing I want to get right—I don’t even know if I can show up and be the man she deserves. How can I be worthy of her if I can’t even decide which life I’m living?

Integration , that’s what Asher said. If only I could figure out what that means.

The sound of heavy boots stomping in unison echoes down the hallway toward Weston’s apartment and the sofa where I’m busy feeling sorry for myself.

Then I hear the chant.

"DATE-NIGHT! DATE-NIGHT! DATE-NIGHT!"

Before I can sit up properly, the door flies open like someone launched it with a battering ram, and in pours half the Ice Breakers roster, all grinning like teenagers.

Cade is leading the parade, wearing sunglasses indoors like he's in a music video.

Jamie is behind him, shirtless for no reason, doing a shoulder shimmy that looks like it hurts just watching it.

Asher follows with a portable speaker, and Weston—my dear temporary roommate—is trailing behind holding a single red rose like this is a TV dating show.

They burst into the apartment doing what I can only describe as a soul train line through the living room.

"MAKE WAY FOR THE FRENCH ROMANCE KING!" Weston yells, launching the rose at my head. "HE'S GOT A DATE WITH THE ACCOUNTANT!"

Lucian starts beatboxing. Cade moonwalks into the kitchenette. It is madness.

I am still horizontal on Weston’s sofa, wrapped in a blanket, one sock on, hair in every direction, and what might be a dried piece of cereal stuck to my cheek.

I try to smile. " Bonsoir, mes amis . So glad you’ve come to see my slow and inevitable decline in person. "

"Oh, he’s brooding," Asher says. "Textbook Frenchie. Someone get him a journal and a candle."

Weston raises a hand, and to my surprise, the room actually quiets. Cade turns down the speaker. Jamie plops into a beanbag chair.

I try to sit up straighter, rubbing a hand over my face. "I appreciate the enthusiasm. Truly. But I am not feeling very much like the Romance King."

Carson tosses me a clean shirt. "You don’t have to feel like it. You just have to show up. The rest is instinct."

"Yeah," Jamie adds. "Also, she already likes you. So the hard part’s over."

I try to hold on to their absolute belief that this night will be exactly what I need. But inside, I’m still circling the drain.

Integration.

Maybe this is when I have to choose whether I continue to hide my illness and the stress of the construction and the fear of losing everything.

Or whether I show up for a woman who makes me feel like I’m enough, just as I am.

“Okay,” I say, standing up slowly. "Help me get my act together. But nothing over the top. This is a respectable date night."

"RESPECTABLE DATE NIGHT!" they all cheer.

The guys collapse on the couch in a tangle of limbs and laughter as I retreat into Weston’s bedroom. My heart won’t stop thudding.

I’ve got an array of clothing spread out over the bed. Button-up shirt. Athletic wear. A second button-up but with slightly more vibe. Black jeans. Sweat pants. A sweater I’ve never worn but brought with me from Paris because I thought it looked “American. ”

“Rivière!” Carson yells from the living room. “You moisturizing in there or what?”

“I don’t know what to wear,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

“That’s because you’re French,” Asher calls out. “Just wear something .”

“She said to be prepared for anything,” I say louder, pulling out the sweater and then immediately putting it back. “What does that mean? Does that mean farm work? Bowling? Laser tag?”

“Could mean yoga,” Cade adds. “In which case, please wear the tight pants. For morale.”

Weston’s laughter rumbles from the kitchen.

I throw a clean white T-shirt in the pile and freeze, hands clenched. My palms are sweating. With what I face in my career, this almost feels ridiculous.

I’m nervous for a date .

I sit on the edge of the bed and push the heels of my hands into my eyes. The thing is—this isn’t just a date. Not in the way Americans do it.

French dating is a slow burn. A drawn-out courtship where we walk and we talk. We spend three months pretending it’s not serious while secretly memorizing their coffee order and imagining their name with ours.

There’s no this-is-a-date-and-it-ends-with-a-kiss pressure. There’s no hyper-structured, milestone-based, swipe-left-or-right performance. There’s nuance.

But here it’s all formal and intense. And Marcy is American with French levels of complexity. She’ll want to see the real me, which makes this all the more terrifying. My only saving grace is that the pounding in my head has quieted.

“Rivière,” Weston calls gently, not joking this time. “You good?”

I take a breath and stare down at the absurd collection of clothes on the bed. Then I grab them all, shove them into a backpack, zip it up, and toss it over my shoulder.

“You bringing a parachute in there, or what?” Jamie says as I rejoin the group.

“Absolutely. If I’m going to fall for her, I might as well be prepared.”

A collective groan rises from the couch, followed by applause. Carson flings a pillow at me and I catch it.

Let the date begin.