Bonjour
Chapter 1- Bonjour
The Goalie's © 2025 Naomi The Goalie’s, and all associated characters, story elements, visuals, and concepts are the intellectual property of the author.
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Trigger Warnings
This book contains mature and potentially distressing content. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Sex work
Medical condition with emotional and social implications
Body image issues / identity-related trauma
Grief and loss
death
Emotional repression / dissociation
Sexual content with dark emotional tones
Power imbalances in romantic and psychological relationships
Toxic romantic dynamics
Psychological manipulation
Explicit language and adult themes
Anahi
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 were 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 of the ice.
We moved from Ontario to this province when I was eight, so not only was this a whole new experience for me, but I also had to learn French.
Now, at 26 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 decided 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, add 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 99.9% 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 tried to visit as much as I could. But I didn’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 required back-to-back surgeries and extensive physiotherapy.
I moved out of this small Quebec town when I was 18.
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 did 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 was 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 this and dip my feet into the big city world.
But that big city, aka Toronto, came 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—a little town called London.
There were many other reasons why I left.
Another reason I moved was that there was no culture in this town—this small town is 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.
The assistant’s whistle pierces through the stillness of the stadium, scaring the shit out of me so much that I nearly drop my laptop.
I glance up and see the assistant motioning for the boys to gather together.
Reluctantly, I remove my AirPods, tucking them back into their case, and start packing up my things.
The chair I’ve been sitting in—if you can even call it that—offers about as much comfort as a bed of nails, making me wince as I rise.
I stretch my legs and arms, which have gone stiff from sitting too long, and begin to make my way down the steps.
Each step I take echoes through the empty space, my boots clack against the hard surface.
I usually sit up in the stands, purposely distancing myself from the cluster of parents below, hoping to avoid small talk and unwanted conversations.
Sure, I could sit with everyone else down closer to the rink, where the air is thick with the mingled scents of sweat and ice, and the chatter is constant.
But no, that’s not for me. I prefer the quiet isolation of my perch, where I can retreat into my own world.
As I reach the bottom, I spot the boys already engaged in their usual horseplay.
They’re laughing, shoving each other, completely oblivious to the time. If I don’t stay on top of them, we’ll never get out of here.
With a sigh, I pick up my pace, knowing that wrangling them is going to be a task in itself.
“Come on, boys, you have school in an hour. You need to eat before we head over there!” I call out, my voice carrying across the rink.
My yell catches the attention of other parents.
Another small detail about me: I am not a morning person. Never have been, never will be.
Even after a year of doing this, my body still can’t get with the program.
I glance over and notice parents whispering, casting glances in my direction.
Assholes.
Another small detail: there’s still a lot of, um, how do I put this—discrimination here, especially within the English-speaking community.
So yes, not only do I have to deal with the racist assholes who have a problem with me being Latina, but I also have to watch out for those assholes who hate it when people speak English.
I’ve had a few run-ins where people would scream at me, saying,
“Parle français, tu es au Québec!”
“Speak French, you’re in Quebec!” And I always catch them off guard by telling them to fuck off—in French.
I don’t usually let people get under my skin with their staring. I’m used to it by now. So, what do I do? I fucking stare back.
“Coming!”
One of the boys screams out to me, breaking my staring contest with that asshole who was staring first. I look over my shoulder as the boys skate toward me, showing off as usual.
They’re very good, not just at the sport itself, but at skating in general.
When they finally reach me, they come to a halt with a “hockey stop,” sending a spray of ice into the air.
“Come on, guys, I have to take Mom to physio,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah... we know the drill, ‘Mom,’” Elijah mutters, rolling his eyes at me. Elijah—never knows when to shut up, and I don’t think he knows how to.
“Yeah, here’s what we’re not going to do—you will not call me ‘Mom,’” I retort.
“You know how chismosos (gossip) this town is. They might actually think you two are mine. And I did ‘Beat Teen Pregnancy’ after all,” I tease.
“Yeah, imagine you with kids. I’d feel sorry for them,” Myles chimes in. Another sassy one, but not as much as Elijah.
When I was younger, I always wondered why my parents gave my siblings such typical “non-Latino names,” while I got stuck with the ultimate Latina name.
But my theory is that Latinos have a thing for naming their second child something less traditional.
It’s a proven fact.
My mother had the twins when she was 37. Yeah, she thought she was going through pre-menopause, and, well, here are the results of pre-menopause.
When we all found out, it was a big shocker indeed. I was 16, and I had been an only child for so long. And twins on top of that.
“Oh, come on, I’ve done a good job with you two this past year. You’re alive, aren’t you?” I say with a smirk as I open a small door in the boards and step onto the ice.
“Barely,” Elijah mutters.
Myles chimes in, “Although I’ll give it to you—you can cook.”
“True. At least we don’t starve,” Elijah agrees.
“Hey, I do more than that! Be nice to me, or you’ll be walking to school,” I threaten, narrowing my eyes at them.
Elijah’s eyes widen in shock. He knows I’m serious—I’ve done it before, no shame.
I had to teach them a valuable lesson. I mean, I could’ve done it when it wasn’t a snowstorm, but I drove right behind them.
I was there the whole time.
Tough love, shall we?
My parents were tough on me, but with these two, it’s like they forgot.
Also, the advantages of being the older sister, I guess.
“Last time you did that, Mom was pissed,” Myles recalls, raising an eyebrow.
“True, but she got over it just as fast. I know how to get to Mom’s heart,” I say, grinning at the memory.
“You’re an evil woman, you know that?” Elijah accuses, shaking his head in mock disbelief. Coming from him, that’s saying a lot—he’s worse than I am.
“Indeed,” I reply with a laugh. “Now, let’s get going—locker room, get changed, and hurry.”
They turn around and begin to skate away.
“…and don’t take too long talking to your friends!” I continue yelling as the boys skate off.
“You’re doing a good job,” a voice calls out behind me.
I turn around, immediately recognizing the voice—a voice I try to avoid. Not because I dislike her, but because once she starts talking, there’s no stopping her.
“Aww, thanks, Élodie,”
Élodie is one of the moms here. She’s young, single—didn’t beat teen pregnancy like I did, but I don’t joke about that around her. We’re not that close yet.
“It’s really nice that you moved back here to help your mom. How is she, by the way?” Élodie asks, with genuine concern in her eyes.
Shit, she’s too nice. Guilt tugs at me. Kinda makes me feel like a bitch after that thought.
“She’s doing okay. A lot of physio, and she’ll need surgery again, but we’re taking it one day at a time,” I reply, trying to match her sincerity.
“That’s all you can do, hun. So—”
She continues talking. And talking. I can’t interrupt the poor woman. I don’t think she has many friends, and this might be the only time she really interacts with other adults.
She dives into details about her job. I try to pay attention, but my mind keeps wandering.
She’s a sweet lady—probably around my age. She looks like your typical French woman: short blonde hair, fair complexion, light eyes, and a very thick French accent that sometimes makes it hard for me to understand her.
I’ve told her more than once that she can speak to me in French, but she always insists on practicing her English. She’s one of those rare people here who doesn’t discriminate.
A rare gem for sure, I think with a soft smile.
I hear the boys laughing, I quickly turn toward them. There they are, each carrying hockey bags that are way too big for their tiny bodies.
“I have to get this kid to school. See you tomorrow,” Élodie says, breaking my focus.
“See you tomorrow, El,” I reply with a smile.
As she leaves, I pull out my phone to text my mother that I’ll be there in an hour to pick her up.
Just as I’m about to send the message, a notification pops up:
Reminder: The new coach will be arriving tomorrow. Please ensure everyone is on time to greet him.
“Ugh, stupid new coach,” I mutter under my breath.
Unfortunately, I know a little too much about this so-called new coach.
He’s the town’s golden boy—one of the few who made it big. And now, after a busted knee—or was it his back?—meh, don’t know, don’t care, he’s retired and coming back to coach the team this season.
He could’ve chosen any other place but had to come back here. For fuck’s sake.
We went to high school together—although here it’s called something else, but we won’t go into those terms at the moment.
We never hung out in the same crowd. Sure we had some classes together...but you couldn’t pay me enough to even consider being part of that group of arrogant assholes.
Everyone at school knew who he was. Then he left, and that was the last I ever heard of him.
Okay, I’m lying—it wasn’t the only reason I knew of him. His face was plastered all over billboards and commercials, and during hockey season, it was interview after interview.
He played for the Montreal Canadiens—one of Canada’s big hockey teams.
Just a FYI-we don’t mention the Toronto Maple Leafs here… although, now that I think about it, maybe I should wear my Toronto Maple Leafs jersey tomorrow just to piss him off.
But then putting that jersey on…shit…the idea is sounding more and more intriguing.
But if I walk out of my house wearing that thing, people might actually hunt me down with their pitchforks.
I look up from my phone and see the boys taking their sweet time.
“Come on, boys, let’s get moving… ¡Más rápido, por favor!” (Faster please) I gesture with my hand, urging them to pick up the pace.
“You realize this bag is heavy, right?” Elijah grumbles, dragging his hockey gear behind him.
“And you realize that it’ll only help you build more muscle,” I retort with a smirk. “If Myles can do it, so can you. Come on, or you’ll be starving at school.”
“Always threatening us…” Myles mumbles, though there’s a hint of a smile on his lips.
“And you love it,” I tease back. “Come on, my sweet, handsome boys.”
“Shh… Ana… Please, no,” Elijah pleads. “Our friends are here—you can’t do that…”
“Aha! Mistake number one… you told me not to do something.” I smirk mischievously. “Come on, mis bebés hermosos,”(my precious babies).I coo, knowing it’ll embarrass them to no end.
Their faces flush red as they pick up the pace, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Ah, the joys of being the older sister.”
We pull up to the school, where kids are running around, with the everyday parents and teachers yelling at them.
“Okay, boys, I’ll see you later,” I call out as they gather their things.
“And don’t forget your shit, because I don’t want to be coming back and forth!”
“Yeah, yeah… see you later, Mom,” Elijah quips, rolling his eyes.
“Ahi este hijo de su madre,”(this little son of a bitch) I mutter under my breath.
“La tuya, (yours)” Elijah shoots back with a sly grin.
“Convenient, isn’t it?” I reply with mock exasperation. “You only know Spanish when it’s convenient for you.”
He opens the door but stops before leaving. Suddenly, he hugs me from behind the back seat and plants a wet kiss on my cheek.
“Love you, sister Anahi,” he says, grinning.
“Love you too, brother Eli,”
Myles scoots over and gives me a side hug. He’s the more lovable one between them, and I appreciate the small moment of warmth.
“What, no wet kiss?” I tease, raising an eyebrow at Myles.
“No, that’s gross. You probably taste salty. I don’t know how Eli does it,” he replies with a scrunched-up face.
He lets me go, and I shift my body to face him.
“You tell me—I thought all boys are gross,” I counter with a smirk.
“Nope… not this one. I think I was switched at the hospital,” Myles shoots back with mock seriousness.
I burst out laughing. “Yeah, I think that whole identical twin thing might be a dead giveaway that you weren’t.”
“Plus, I was there when you were born—you were all gross, bloody, and things I can’t even-“
“Okay, okay, I get it, gross. I don’t need visuals,” he interrupts, holding up a hand to stop me.
“All right, off you go,” I say, waving him toward the door.
“Love you, hermanita,” Myles calls out as he heads off.
“I love you too, mi príncipe,”
As he disappears, I sigh and mumble to myself, “Now, next on the list—more caffeine, then on to Mother Dearest.”
