Page 34 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

MARCY

I collapse onto my bed, still in my date clothes, boots kicked off somewhere near the door. I lie there for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling like it’s going to explain how the last twelve hours of my life were real.

Because they were. They were so real I can feel them still.

Clément arriving at the gate, the picture of the perfect date with a duffel bag for every possible activity. He ate lasagna at a little table with trembling hands and shared stories of his mother. And then came the puzzle.

What kind of woman asks a professional athlete to spend the night sorting through thousands of tiny pieces at her side?

Apparently, this woman.

He hadn’t flinched. He’d leaned in, laughed, and looked into me with those deep brown eyes, and I melted. Then came sunrise…

And that kiss .

I instinctively cover my mouth, just remembering it. How he wrapped his arms around me from behind as the sun lit up the sky, like we were the first people on Earth to witness it. How he turned me toward him. How our lips met and everything in me sparked to life like dry kindling meeting a match.

It was soft. And deep. And everything I ever wanted. How does it get better than that?

It doesn’t. It really doesn’t.

I smile up at the ceiling, a dopey, dreamy grin that has no business being this happy. I should feel embarrassed. I don’t. I just feel… warm. Like he poured sunshine into me and it hasn’t stopped glowing since.

But then he left.

The sound of his motorcycle fading into the morning light felt like someone pulling a curtain on a perfect show.

What just happened?

My fingers tighten against the blanket beneath me. Maybe he was worried about being seen, or what others would think. Certainly, Happy Horizons is one of those places where privacy is a myth. Was he thinking about my reputation? That would be kind, even romantic.

Unless it’s that he wished that kiss hadn’t happened.

My stomach knots.

No. No, I refuse to believe that. That kiss was too honest. I felt it. I know he did, too.

Still, that flicker in his eyes as he left just didn’t feel right. Was he tired? Overwhelmed? Did I push things too far?

No. That wasn’t it.

The more I try to untangle it, the more I end up back at the same place: that kiss. That smile. The intensity in his eyes when he looked at me.

The roosters are already crowing and birds are gossiping in the trees. Somewhere on the ranch, Angel is probably frying up some eggs and humming to herself, while Scotty tries to rouse the kids. They’re both completely unaware that I’ve just lived through the most magical night of my life .

And despite all my overthinking, all my doubt and worry, it’s the memory of his hand curling around mine, the way his thumb traced the back of my fingers like he wanted to memorize them, that lulls me to sleep.

First date? Complete.

And I’m officially falling in love with a French hockey player who builds houses, does puzzles like he means it, and kisses in a way that says forever.

It’s a couple hours later and the mug in my hand is comically large. White ceramic with a faded “I Brake for Tax Season” decal that always makes Angel groan, it holds the exact amount of caffeine required to survive a Sunday morning after a sleepless Saturday night.

I walk slowly, letting the dew-damp grass cover the toes of my boots as I cut across the field toward the barn. The sun is just climbing high enough to warm the tops of the trees, and the usual ranch symphony is in full swing.

Scotty’s old truck kicks up dust on the path as it rumbles home from the farmers’ market. He leans out the window, grinning like the Cheshire cat in flannel.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the belle of the bachelor ball.”

I roll my eyes and sip. “You’re barely back and already causing trouble?”

He parks beside the main house, hops out, and gestures me over. “Come on. You know I’ve got the emotional range of a fourteen-year-old girl when it comes to my ranch family. Spill.”

I start with the easy part. “It was nice. ”

Scotty raises his eyebrows. “Nice?”

I exhale. “Okay. Great. Better than I imagined, actually. I’m still processing, but there’s something there . ”

He nods like he expected that, but then his eyes narrow a little. “And?”

I shrug. “And I don’t know. He left kind of fast this morning. Like, fast-fast.”

That earns a slow, knowing nod. “This sounds like a conversation for the porch swing, yeah?”

“Porch swing, it is.”

We settle into the porch swing at the main ranch house, and I launch into the Cliff Notes version of the night, complete with sharing parts of our soul, the sunrise, the kiss, and the sudden disappearance that followed.

At first, I’m breezy. A sunrise kiss with the most distractingly handsome French goalie in the league? Totally typical Saturday night.

Scotty doesn’t interrupt. He leans back, hands laced behind his head, letting the porch swing do its lazy arc back and forth. He nods in all the right places—sunrise, puzzle, kiss—and smirks when I mention Clément carrying four different outfit options “just in case.”

But when I get to the part about him leaving, how he kissed me like that and then disappeared, my voice gets smaller. I don’t mean for it to, but it does. I fumble with the rim of my mug, looking for answers in the swirling steam.

“I mean, I guess he had to get to practice?” I say. “Or maybe he didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. This is Maple Falls, after all. People love a good story and they love it even more if it’s none of their business.”

Scotty waits for me to go on without a word.

“He just left so fast. Not in a rude way. There was this look in his eyes. Like he was somewhere else already.” I pause. “Something must be going on with him. ”

Scotty’s jaw tics and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, people think they’ve got hockey players all figured out. Brash. Loud. Party animals with egos bigger than their sticks. And some of them are, sure. I played with more than my fair share of those guys.”

He rubs a hand across his face like he’s sorting through years of memories. “But most of them are just guys trying to survive in a career that eats you alive if you’re not always at the top of your game. One bad hit, one slump, one bad concussion… and it’s over.”

Those are high stakes and I glance at Scotty, startled by the thought. He nods. “It’s a short window. The job becomes your whole identity because it has to. You wear confidence like armor, because if you don’t, someone else will skate right over you.”

He turns to me. “But love? That shakes things loose. Makes you drop the armor without even realizing it. That’s what Clément’s doing right now. Whether he meant to or not, that’s what last night was.”

With the mug at my lips, I let the steam warm my face. “He looked scared.”

“Because he is,” Scotty says gently. “He’s a guy who’s lived his life at full speed. And then he met someone who made him stop.”

I’m not required to attend Town Council Meetings, but I feel it’s part of my job as the person who keeps the numbers from falling into a pit of doom. But tonight’s meeting has popcorn .

Not in the literal sense, in the people-watching sense .

I sit three rows back, hemmed in by townspeople, and the air is abuzz. They’ve added an emergency item to the docket and based on the whispers flying faster than Edgar on a sugar high, something big is about to drop .

I crane my neck toward the back doors, scanning every new arrival.

Not Clément.

I shift in my seat, annoyed at myself for noticing and look at his text again.

Clément: Dear incredible woman, I must prepare for tomorrow’s game.

Of course he wouldn’t come to a town council meeting. That’s about as romantic as an audit. Still, my stomach dips.

Council members are assembled at the front and somehow call the meeting to order. “We have one item of emergency business. Ms. Bailey Porter, the floor is yours.”

Bailey steps up with a metal box like she’s just unearthed the Arc of the Covenant. Behind her is Carson Crane, her boyfriend and apparent partner in archaeological crime.

She opens the box and begins pulling out yellowed newspaper clippings, black-and-white photographs, and what looks suspiciously like a property deed. Her voice rings clear, full of conviction.

“These buildings aren’t just structures, they’re our history, our heritage. My great-great-great-grandfather’s signature is on these papers, pledging to protect them for future generations. It’s our duty to honor that promise.”

She’s good.

A council member looks everything over. “These documents date back to the nineteen-fifties and include a charter amendment passed during the Maple Falls centennial celebration. It required a supermajority vote to redevelop any part of the historic district. That clause was never overturned.”

Gasps ripple through the room.

People start murmuring. I recognize many of them—they’re either my tax clients, their cousins, or the woman who once tried to deduct her parrot as a dependent.

The excitement is infectious, even if I’m still mentally cataloging whether a 1950s clause holds legal standing after two reorganizations of town governance.

I glance at the door again.

Still no Clément.

The vote is called. Unanimous.

“Main Street is going to be a historic district!”

The room explodes into cheers. A woman behind me shouts, “I KNEW IT!” and throws her arms in the air, nearly knocking her husband out.

This is a win for the town, a rare miracle involving paperwork and integrity and democracy. As the meeting wraps up, and there is much hugging and celebrating, I know that I should go home.

But instead, I head toward Clément’s fixer-upper, heart hammering like I’m the one now being auctioned off to a room full of enthusiastic townspeople with deep pockets and questionable impulse control.

The house is closed up. No hum of tools or music spilling out from some corner of the renovation zone. Just stillness, and the faint creak of tree branches in the air. There’s a dampness in the grass that soaks through my boots by the time I reach the porch.

No movement inside. No sound.

I know there’s no game tonight. I saw most of the team at the Town Hall. So where is he?

My stomach tightens. The truth is, I wouldn’t be here unless I wanted to talk to him.

Really talk about what’s going on between us.

And yeah, it might be awkward. It probably will be awkward.

But I need to hear the truth from him , not from others on the team or the rumor mill or my own overactive brain.

I’m falling for him, and now that I know it, I can’t pretend it isn’t true.

I hover on the porch for another second, half-expecting him to pull up on his motorcycle, helmet askew and hair wind-blown, but the silence stretches on.

It only gets worse when I head over to the condo complex, just to find that Rivière on the buzzer has been replaced by Svoboda.

Oh wait, his friend Mathieu arrives today! Of course he wouldn’t be here. It’s only natural he’s taking his friend around and skipping a meeting for a town he only just moved to. I bet they’re off laughing and toasting and riding all around this part of Washington.

The idea makes me feel a bit better, but now I’m self-conscious and my courage is quickly disappearing. I have to get out of here before anyone sees Maple Falls’s ice queen trying to track down the Frenchman like a lovesick puppy. My feelings might be over the top, but I am not.

The game tomorrow.

I rush to the arena, pencil skirt holding me back from breaking into a run, which is probably for the best. I never thought I’d be a girl who would want to buy front row seats to a pro hockey game, but life does what life does.

And I want to be Clément’s ice queen.