Page 36 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“Okay,” she says, her voice gravelly. Her eyes are barely open when I stand to take her in. I pull my pants from the floor, step into them, and then toss her sleep shirt to her so she can cover up.

“Don’t forget the deposit,” I remind her, slipping my shirt over my head and stuffing my wallet, keys, and phone into my pocket.

I hold her blanket up so she can crawl back underneath. It’s not quite five yet. She still has a few hours of sleep ahead of her. I tuck her in, smoothing her hair from her face before bending down to kiss her head. The mental picture of her soft form will stick with me, and I nearly tell her I love her before I swallow those words so I can process them.

I slip out of her room and gently close her door, not exhaling until I reach the top of the stairs.

What the fuck was that? I love her? I mean . . . shit. I love her.

My pulse races, but with every step I take, it regulates until I’m fucking grinning like an idiot at the bottom of her family’s stairs. I grip the round, wooden finial where we used to hang our coats when we were kids after playing in the snow. I glance over my shoulder, up to the quiet, dark hallway beyond the landing, and just before I take a step to rush back upstairs and tell Frankie everything in my heart, a throat clears in the darkness.

Anthony flicks the reading lamp on the second I turn to face the den. He’s still wearing the same clothes as he did last night, but he doesn’t look as sloppy and drunk. He’s sobered up. And he’s fucking furious.

“Going somewhere?”

He jumps to his feet and straightens his sweatshirt before adjusting his jeans along his hips.

“Ant, look?—”

“You get what you need here? Time to leave?” He takes a few ambling steps forward. I take one back and hold up a hand.

“It’s not what you think, man.”

“No?” He steps toward me again, closing the gap. He’s going to hit me so fucking hard. I brace myself for the impact.

“I really care about her, Anthony. This is different. She’s different.”

He shoves my chest, two palms dead center, and I lose most of my air and fall back a few steps.

“You’re right, Noah. She is different. She’s my fucking sister,” he shouts, shoving me just as I regain my balance.

“Yes. It’s your sister. And I’m sorry that it had to be this way, but I am not backing down.” I steady my legs this time, and when he pushes me, I shove him back, my hands hitting his pecs with a massive thud.

“Fuck you,” he coughs out, grabbing my shirt by the collar and pulling me into him until the cotton tears.

I wrestle his hand away from me just as his other fist crashes into my jaw. The crunch of bone-on-bone rings in my ears, and the lights overhead illuminate the second Anthony’s body rams into mine, knocking me into the dining table, then the floor.

“Anthony! Stop!” Frankie’s voice is shrill.

“Boys! Stop it!” Her mom’s tone is familiar, the same one she used when we roughhoused as young boys. This fight is different, though. As long as I’m within reach, Anthony is going to keep coming for me. He can’t hear reason right now. He doesn’t want to.

“I asked you for one thing! One. Thing!” His voice is hoarse from a heavy night of drinking and the volume he’s blasting at me.

“You don’t get to do that,” I grunt, grappling with him as he swings at me wildly, landing a good shot just under my left eye. Eventually, I have him pinned, and I cuff his wrists with my hands and press them into his chest.

“I told you not to fuck up her life, man. She has a good thing going. A scholarship at Harbor. She doesn’t need you in her head. You know she’s weak when it comes to you. You know it!”

I push his knotted hands into his diaphragm out of anger, and he coughs out a gasp. I’m stronger than he is, even if he’s raging. I’m bigger. And if this continues, I’m going to seriously hurt him. As I attempt to climb off his waist, he grabs hold of my leg, tripping me up enough to allow him the upper hand. But I’m done fighting with him. I understand his anger. I just need him to calm down so I can explain.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he growls, his arm elevated and ready to come down on my face.

“No!” Frankie screams, pulling at the back of her brother’s shirt. He fights against her, leaving them both in a strained stalemate as I scoot backward to gain space from Anthony.

He tries to shake Frankie off, and I’m about to leap to my feet to pull her off his back when a pair of massive arms peels her away and wraps around Anthony’s waist.

“This stops now!” Steven Bardot’s booming voice renders everyone speechless and still. Anthony is not quite limp as his father drags him back several feet, his arms locked around his son’s torso and biceps. Anthony doesn’t dare fight back.

Still on the floor, I let my back fall against the kitchen cabinet, my mind finally catching up to just how far I traveled during this scuffle. When my gaze lands on the man who coached me as a boy and taught me everything I know about hockey, I suddenly feel like the twelve-year-old who was mesmerized by him. I also feel really fucking ashamed.

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