Page 12 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“Well, I didn’t know we had a celebrity Santa this year. Good to see you, Noah.” He cups Noah’s free hand in both of his, giving him an exaggerated shake.

“Yeah, I sort of fell into the gig,” he says, his eyes darting to me for a beat. I think he’s waiting for me to tattle on him, but I’m over the shock of it all. If he needs volunteer hours for school, I guess this makes sense. It’s really his only free time, and my dad does deserve a boys’ trip.

“He gave my dad the season off so he could golf,” I add. Noah’s lips curve a tick, and I think that shade of pink on his cheeks is the guilty kind. He bends down to open Norris’s gear bag and begins constructing his light kit.

“That’s awful nice. Wonder if he’ll regret that after the first kid pees his pants,” Norris chuckles.

Noah’s head pops up, his guilty smirk replaced by wide eyes and an open mouth.

“Wait, what?”

I wave my hand at him and lower myself to my knees so I can help twist the support beams together.

“It rarely happens. Maybe once or twice,” I say.

“Oh, that’s better. Wait . . . do you mean, like, ever? Or a season?”

I bite my bottom lip and shift my gaze to Norris. He can’t contain his big belly laugh. He pats Noah on the shoulder a few times and waddles his way toward the Santa chair, still chuckling. Noah leans over the gear, close to me.

“Why is he laughing?”

I suck in my lips, trying to hold my own laugh in now.

“He means once or twice a day,” I admit, wincing as my shoulders hike.

“Son of a?—”

Noah drops the light stand on the bag and stands, stretching his arms over his head and threading his hands behind his neck as he paces along the mat, then steps on the ice.

“I figured my dad would have told you,” I holler.

He holds out a thumb, but his mouth is a tight line, and he’s beginning to skate a bit faster. He always does that when someone makes him mad on the ice. It’s a trick my dad taught him to work out frustrations and cool his temper.

“Think he knows we’re exaggerating and teasing him?” Norris laughs out as he rests on the velvet tufted chair.

I shrug.

“He could use a little humbling.”

After a few laps, Noah joins me to finish setting up the lighting kit. Norris tests out his framing, adjusting his tripod afew times before ordering Noah to take a seat on the throne. It’s strange seeing him sit in that chair. So much of him reminds me of my dad, but there are a lot of things that are not my father at all. Things that could get me in trouble—like the way his hands flex on the chair’s arms and how the red pants stretch around his thighs. And my dad’s skates are old and scuffed, but Noah’s are a sleek black.

“Frankie, you mind playing bratty kid for me for a second?” Norris asks as he points with his hand above the camera, his face pressed against the viewfinder.

“Like, on his lap?”

Noah’s chuckle is clear.

“Yeah, just for a few test shots. It’s not like you don’t know each other.”

My mouth straightens, and my stomach twists. Yeah, we know each other. We’ve kissed. And I’ve fantasized. And apparently, Noah’s now obsessed. The thought of sitting on that lap, with those legs . . .

I swallow hard.

“Sure,” I croak.

I take baby steps toward Noah, partly stalling. His cocky smirk doesn’t help matters, but then he takes my hand, and his palm is so warm. His grip is strong but gentle, and the touch of his other hand around my waist is firm and proper. The thought of his hand lowering on my leg flashes through my mind as I spin around and skootch my way onto his lap.

“Sorry, I’m heavier than a toddler,” I grumble.

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