Page 41 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

CLéMENT

I have never sweated so much in my life. Not during training or playoffs or even that time I played an outdoor game in Bordeaux in a thermal base layer that was warm enough for an Everest climb.

And yet here I am, drenched, gasping, weaving through airport signs and confused tourists like it’s the Olympic obstacle course no one trained for.

“I lost my boarding pass,” I pant.

Behind me, Mathieu waves it in the air. “ Je l’ai! I’ve got it!” he calls. “Keep running!”

Weston nearly plowed through the glass doors to drop us at Departures. Mathieu, Jamie, and Carson spilled out like a reverse clown car, each yelling something about go get her and if you miss this plane, we’re staging another intervention .

Mathieu is maybe two strides behind. Lucian, somewhere back, is narrating the whole thing to his Instagram stories. Jamie, who apparently has a second career in track and field, bursts ahead of all of us and yells as he charges in, “ HOLD THE DOORS! LOVE IS COMING THROUGH! ”

Security is a blur of shouting, apology, and me frantically miming a rush while yelling, “No bags! No liquids!”

Mathieu throws my passport at the agent like it was the final play of a championship and somehow, they let me through.

Now I’m sprinting toward the gate.

Gate B19. I see it.

A flight attendant is already lifting the gate phone. “We’re good to close?—”

I shout through pants, “One more. One more passenger!”

The woman blinks, startled, until I skid up to the counter.

“ That’s me , ” I gasp. “I’m — I’m the last passenger. ”

She looks at me, a little stunned. I realize in this moment I must be absolutely soaked, curls dripping, shirt half-untucked. But she doesn’t flinch. In fact, she gives me a slow smile that says she knows exactly what’s going on.

“Let me guess,” she says. “There’s a girl. You want to stop her from making a terrible life decision.”

I nod. “Yes, but no , ” I say. “I’m here to go with her.”

That gets me a smile. She lifts the phone and talks with a giggle in her voice. “Tell them at the gate we’ve got one more.” She scans my boarding pass. “Now go get her.”

She swings open the boarding door like it’s a portal to destiny.

I run.

Down the tunnel, lungs burning, my footsteps echo in the enclosed space.

“Marcy Fontaine, where are you!? ” I yell, praying the acoustics are on my side. “Wait! I’m on this flight!”

At the other end of the tunnel, the door’s still cracked open. I catch the gate attendant’s voice over the radio: “ Final passenger heading your way. Name’s Rivière .”

I nearly trip from the sheer relief .

The flight attendant at the plane entrance, an older woman with silver hair pulled back in a bun, is smiling when I reach her, hands braced on her hips like she’s been waiting her whole life to be part of this moment.

“Ah,” she says. “I think someone’s waiting for you.”

She waves me on.

This is it.