The Goalie’s Secret
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Naomi
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Returning home was never part of Anahí’s plan. But with her father gone and her mother struggling, she has no choice but to step back into a life she tried to escape. Raising her brothers and barely keeping them afloat. The last person she expects to see is Koen, the high school golden boy, now a retired NHL star and single father. When he offers her a job as his daughter’s nanny, old wounds reopen, desire ignites, and buried secrets threaten to destroy them both.
Chapter 1: Bonjour
ANAHÍ
Hockey. The Great Canadian Sport.
Now, don’t go thinking that every single Canadian loves hockey. That’s far from the truth, although in the town where I’m from, the cliché holds strong.
This town eats, sleeps, and breathes hockey. If parents could strap skates on their newborns, I’m pretty sure they would.
Unfortunately for me, being a first-generation Latina, my parents are completely new to the whole skating and hockey world. I was late to the game, both figuratively and literally, but I eventually fell in love with the beautiful sport on the ice.
We moved from Ontario to this province when I was eight, so not only was it a whole new experience for me, but I also had to learn French.
Now, at twenty-six years old, here I am, bright and early, at my twin brothers’ hockey practice.
Sitting here at the ice rink is like being in a freezer. Okay, maybe I’m over-exaggerating.
The frigid air hits me with an immediate jolt, as if to say, “Wake up, bitch.” If only coffee could work this fast—it would be a blessing.
Of course, you don’t feel the cold as much when you’re moving around, but when you’re just sitting down doing nothing? Ice-cold and unrelenting.
Unfortunately, I haven’t learned my lesson, and today I decide to wear ripped jeans. The holes are definitely not helping my situation.
The cold seeps through my clothes, chilling me to the bone as I take in the wide, open space before me.
The rink itself is expansive, a smooth, gleaming surface that seems to stretch endlessly, with the sound of the rhythmic movements of kids practicing their drills.
The kids dart across the ice, their skates slicing through it with precision, while others stumble, scrambling to regain their balance.
The distant hum of their activity creates a backdrop of sound, punctuated by the occasional body check or the sharp whistle of a coach.
Parents line the edges of the rink. Some are absorbed in their phones, scrolling through God knows what, while others gather in small groups, chatting and laughing softly.
Despite the activity around me, there’s a certain emptiness to the space, a sense of vastness that feels almost isolating. But I bring it upon myself.
I’m not complaining. I try to shield myself from it all, retreating into my own little bubble.
I put in my AirPods, letting the music envelop me, creating a personal refuge from the bustle around me.
It’s not that I’m antisocial. When I need to be, I can put on my “customer service” face and pretend I like people. But ninety-nine point nine percent of the time? I don’t. I’d rather be left alone.
Okay, maybe I am antisocial.
But here I am, taking on the role of the big sister. I love my brothers, and I would move heaven and earth to support them in any way I can.
With that being said… sometimes, they can be too much. Don’t get me wrong, I love my brothers, but ten-year-old twin boys are a handful.
Unfortunately, we didn’t grow up together, although I try to visit as much as I can. But I don’t live just around the corner.
Where are my parents? You might ask.
Well, my father tragically passed away in a horrible car accident a year ago, leaving my mother with a lot of medical issues that require back-to-back surgeries and extensive physiotherapy.
I moved out of this small Quebec town when I was eighteen.
Oh, I guess I forgot to mention. Yes, Quebec is the one true province in Canada that speaks the most French.
So yes, that makes me trilingual.
It’s a small town with a name so hard to pronounce that if you’re not from here, you’d likely butcher it.
How do I keep up with the English language if Quebec only speaks French? Easy. I was one of those lucky kids who had the privilege of going to an all-English school because one of my parents is truly Canadian.
But wait, you said, “They’re both Latinos.”
Well, long story short, my grandparents on my father’s side lived here, but they decided to move to Guatemala after he was born, leaving behind their Canadian life.
That’s where my father grew up, immersed in Latino culture. Even though he wasn’t fully Latino, he considered himself more Latino than any other culture.
So, when he decided to move back with my mother, of course, they started off in Ontario. But my father, being half French, wanted to come back to Quebec.
Hence, he had certain privileges for his kids, like sending them to an all-English school. Now, my brothers have that privilege too.
On top of that, they’re also in an intense hockey program. That means early morning practices and constantly running from point A to point B.
Even during school hours, they’re pulled out to practice. And practice.
So why did I leave this small town? Easy—I needed to get out of there and dip my toes into the big city world.
But that big city, aka Toronto, comes with a big price tag.
Of course, I wanted to do the whole university thing, but unfortunately, I couldn’t go. So, once I moved out, I took some online business courses and moved from city to city until I found one to settle down in.
It was a little town called London. There were many other reasons why I left.
Another reason I moved was that there was no culture in that town. That small town was predominantly French and white.
And I am, well, not.
I have my mother’s beautiful caramel skin and brown eyes, while my brothers have my father’s fair complexion and light eyes.
When my father was alive, and people saw us together, they would ask him if I was adopted.
Whistle.
“Here we go,” I mutter under my breath.
