Page 37 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

CLéMENT

M y pads feel heavier than usual.

The lights glare off the ice like a blade to my skull.

I shift in goal, trying to ignore the nausea churning in my stomach.

The crowd is roaring and I know what’s expected of me.

Mathieu is out there, jet lagged, but I know him.

He’s cheering his head off, even louder than usual because I told him my plan.

I’m going back to Paris. Tomorrow.

Seeing Marcy in the crowd nearly broke me in two. The way she was waving a handkerchief of all things, her smile bright even though I’ve been absent since that precious night we shared.

Seeing her in the stands made me want to fight, but the migraine is back.

The world tilts slightly as a skater from the Saskatoon Titans charges toward the net.

I shake my head to clear my vision. The puck is there—then gone—then back again.

I drop into the butterfly position just in time to block the shot.

My pads make the save, but my body doesn’t recover like it should. My legs feel like jelly.

I push to reset and it’s like skating through mud.

“Get your head in the game, Frenchie!” Jamie shouts, skating past me on a line change.

I nod. At least I try to.

Weston makes a big play, but I couldn’t focus enough to see what happened. It gets the crowd going, which only makes my head worse.

Another play rushes toward me. I spot the puck at the last possible second and drop to my knees again. Pain spikes behind my eyes like broken glass. I make the save, barely, as the player smacks into me with more force than was necessary.

On our side of the ice, Asher is in the face of Jared Winters, a guy he told me he has a long history with, and not the good kind.

They’re exchanging words and judging by the look on Asher’s face, things are going downhill fast between them.

Asher has become a friend during these past weeks, one of the few on the team I can open up to, and I can’t let him ruin his reputation with this waste of space.

I skate over, because goalies have the ability to split guys up better than others. I think it’s the pads.

“Break it up!” I shout, despite how it hurts in my head.

Jared Winters, who’d been pounding on Asher, turns to me and shoves. Hard. I didn’t see it coming.

Suddenly everyone is around us, the fight breaking out big time, and my head bounces against the ice.

That’s when everything tilts.

I don’t remember falling, just the cold of the ice and the sound of the whistle. I can’t get up. I wait as the fight subsides, knowing somewhere in my mind that I’m about to become the center of attention .

Then come hands. Hands on my shoulders, at my helmet, voices calling my name. A medic’s face swims into view. I’m being lifted, dragged toward the bench, then down a corridor. I sense our backup goalie, Lucas McCain, coming down the tunnel to take over for me in the net.

The roar of the arena fades behind me.

The locker room is quiet except for the click of cleats on tile and the occasional buzz of a walkie. I’m sitting on the bench, doubled over, head in my hands.

Footsteps approach.

“ Je suis là ,” I hear Mathieu’s reassuring voice and feel him sit beside me. I can feel him watching me.

I can’t open my eyes. Every shift of light is another slice.

He sets a hand on my shoulder.

“Top shelf in my locker. The one with my name on it.” I look at him through squinted eyes. “Little white bottle. Under the tongue.”

Mathieu nods and is gone.

The locker room blurs a little, the fluorescent lights humming too loud. The door creaks again and I glance up.

Marcy stands in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame, her brows drawn. She walks in and bends at my side.

“I’m fine,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound like the lie it is.

She arches one brow. “That’s a hard sell from someone who looks like he’s about to pass out.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Doesn’t make this good.”

Her voice is calm and composed, but her eyes betray her. They’re wide, worried, scanning my face like she’s trying to add it all up.

“You didn’t tell me,” she says with no hint of accusation, and she brushes a lock of hair off my forehead .

I can’t bring myself to look her in the eye. “Didn’t think it would help.”

“Right. You’d just keep up the pretenses. That always works so well.”

The team trainer pokes his head back in. “Doc is on his way. Sit tight.” He disappears again.

Marcy’s fingertips caress my cheeks. “I understand why you wouldn’t tell me, I think,” she says. “But you must feel it too. After the other night, something is different between us.”

When I meet her eyes, seeing her gentle expression, so full of emotion, my body relaxes.

The door opens again—this time it’s the team physician, all calm efficiency and wire-rimmed glasses. Mathieu is right behind him, clutching my small bottle of meds.

“ Tiens ,” Mathieu murmurs as he kneels beside me, handing over a tab. “ Celui-ci devrait t’aider .”

I slip it under my tongue. The taste is bitter, familiar.

The physician steps closer, glancing between us. “Looks like our Frenchman has a fan club.” His voice is teasing, and it breaks some of the tension. He nods to Marcy, then to Mathieu. “Let’s give him some air, folks. I promise to return him in one piece.”

Marcy hesitates, eyes still on me.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, managing a small, uneven smile.

Mathieu offers a polite nod to the doctor, then turns to Marcy. “I’m Mathieu, by the way. You must be Marcy.”

She blinks, then nods. “I—yes.”

“Come,” my old friend says, gesturing toward the hall with a slight bow. “Let’s give your goalie some room.”

As the door swings shut behind them, their voices fade, and I’m left with the hum of the lights, the cooling sweat on my back, and much needed silence.

Except for my thoughts. Those are anything but silent.