Page 18 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“Are you going to glue a bunch of those under my nose and hope people don’t notice they’re brown?” A breathy, slightly nervous laugh slips from my mouth. Frankie leans her weight to one side and pops a hand on her hip as she purses her lips and flutters her eyes at me.

“I’m going to use the glue, bonehead. You get hit a lot with those pucks?”

She pulls the strip of glue from one of the sets of lashes and leans forward, resting her hand on my upper thigh while she steadies her other hand to press the glue in the perfect spot. I’m not sure why she has the fake lashes because hers are already so long and thick. They bat a few times inches from my face until her gaze settles on mine. I don’t dare look away, but I can see enough of her mouth to spot the crooked smile pulling up her top lip.

“What?” Her voice is soft but not quite a whisper.

“Nothing. It’s just . . . you don’t need those things, is all. You’ve always had really nice lashes.”

Yeah, Frankie. I notice your lashes.

My mouth falls into a soft, closed smile as my neck heats. A touch of pink colors Frankie’s cheeks. The shade grows deeper as she places another dab of glue above my mouth and fights against letting her smile get bigger.

I lift my hand to position the mustache just right, but Frankie’s hands tangle with mine. Our eyes connect.

“Let me do it so it’s not crooked,” she says.

I give a slight nod, and her delicate fingers press the soft hair against my face, locking it in place. She tugs the beard a few times, then combs her fingers through the curls to give it the official Santa look. Somehow, she has managed to maneuver her body so she’s straddling my right leg. My gaze dips, and I shift in the chair, glad I’m wearing both sports boxers and compression pants.

When her fingers sink into the beard and nudge my chin upward, I flit my gaze back to hers. I widen my eyes and relent with a guilty, crooked smile. I expect her to back away and roll her eyes, but instead, she bites her lip, the inside of her leg leaning into the inside of mine in no other way than on purpose.

“How do you know these lashes are real? Maybe I wear fakes all the time.”

My head tilts to the side as I take in the entirety of her face.

“They’re real. I can tell. I know those lashes, and I know that face.”

Her breath hitches, and I feel her air kiss my nose when she exhales.

“You better get ready for this kid. She looks excited,” she says as she backs away. I clear my throat as she spins around, and I note the extra sway in her hips. That skirt she’s wearing dances just above the curve of her ass.

“She’s not the only one excited,” I mumble, exhaling with awhooshas I stand and do a lap around Santa’s chair.

We were busiertoday than yesterday. Norris set up just as I finished hearing theverylong wish list from our first visitor of the day. By the time we finished with the girl’s photo session, the line of kids and parents and couples and, awkwardly, random single women, stretched to the parking lot. I barely had time to take a water break, let alone stretch my legs and skate a few laps. I managed to get one session in but was joined by about a dozen kids who wanted to link hands and skate with Santa.

I can’t lie. I loved every minute of it.

Frankie and I help Norris pack up again. When we reach his car, he stops us while he fishes something out of his glovebox.

“I figured you two might want to remember this holiday,” he says, handing a manila envelope to Frankie.

She eyes him skeptically and slips out a large eight-by-ten photo.

“Oh!” she laughs out, hugging the print against her chest.

“Let me see,” I insist, but Frankie only hugs the photo tighter.

“In a minute,” she says, flashing me wide eyes.

My body warms and a flash of sweat trickles down the back of my neck as I wonder what exactly Norris captured in that shot. He steps into Frankie, kissing her cheek before speaking something in her ear. His gaze passes me, accompanied by an odd smirk, as he gets into his car.

We both wave goodbye from across the hood of his car. My upper lip still stings from where Frankie ripped the mustache and beard from my skin. I’m not sure I can handle ten more days of that.

“Are you going to tell me what he said?” I finally ask.

Frankie begins to stroll toward her car, and I squint my eyes. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this move. When we were kids, she used to swipe the last Otter Pop from my parents’ freezer and wander off before Anthony or I noticed.

“Nope.” She speeds away, darting for her car a quarter second after refusing to share the picture I’m in with her.

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