Page 42 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“Those are just words, Noah. You don’t get to pretend they are real feelings. Not about her.”

I exhale and drop my gloves to the ice before holding out my bare palms.

“Just because you don’t want to hear it doesn’t mean it isn’t real, Ant. I love your sister. And yeah, I’ve loved her like family for, well, forever. But it changed. It’sbeenchanging . . . for a while. And this summer?—”

“When you fucking crossed the line and kissed her before she was about to leave for college?” he shouts. I figured he knew.

“It wasn’t like I had some secret plot, man. We got really close this summer. I spent more time with her, just the two of us, and Frankie and I are a lot alike.”

Anthony spits out a laugh.

“Fuck that. She’s a social work major who wants to do good things in this world. You’re majoring in what? Hotels?”

I roll my neck and tilt my head, pursing my lips at his low insult. He’s always been better at school. He’s majoring in business, and I wanted something that would be easy to keep my grades up.

“It’s hospitality, asshole. But yeah, I agree, okay? Frankie is a better person than me. There, you win this one. Maybe I like that she is. She makes me want to be better. She makes me think about things other than hockey.”

“Yeah, well, that’s all you’re good at, so maybe you should stick with that.” His hard stare cuts me, and I hold my breath, the thinnest sliver of control left in my body, keeping me from racing the dozen or so feet between us and slamming his ass into the ice.

“You sure you want us both to be captains, Ant? I mean, you know your dad is going to coach my team and not yours, right?” My eyes harden, but my mouth waters with sudden nausea. That was a low blow, and it hit his rawest nerve. How could it not? Our entire lives, the fact his dad and I had a closer hockey bond than he and his father did has bothered him. Not once, though, did he let that resentment simmer to a boil.

His eyes well up, and he moves toward me slowly. He stops a few feet short and then throws his gloves at my chest.

“Fuck you, Noah.”

I catch one of his gloves, unable to look away from his heartbroken expression. I was cruel, but there is something bigger behind this.

He skates toward the boards and flings open the exit, the wood panel crashing against the wall as the hinges overextend. His hand slaps the glass before he heads down the hallway, right back to the locker room, and I remain stunned in place with nothing but my thoughts for the next several minutes. Only when another player enters the ice do I break from my thoughts.

“We aren’t starting for an hour, right?” one of the AHL guys asks me.

“Oh, uh. Yeah.” I recognize the guy as one of the forwards who came to talk to us at Tiff my freshman year. I should probably introduce myself to him, play the game, and start building the brand in case we end up on the same squad next year.

“I’ll be back in a minute. You good?” I start to skate backward, and he nods. I leave my gear on the goal, along with Anthony’s gloves, and follow in my friend’s footsteps, hoping I gave him enough time but also hoping I didn’t give him too much.

I push the locker room door open gently, a few guys laughing as they head my way. I hold the door open wide and nod, repeating what I said to the last guy, that I’ll be back in a minute. But when my attention lands on my best friend’s back, his shoulders shaking with his head slung forward and clutched in his hands, I realize nothing is going to be resolved in a minute. I might not be back out on that ice at all. Not if Anthony needs me.

His head lifts, and he turns slightly to the side as I approach. He lifts his left hand and waves me away.

“It’s fine. Just . . . I’m fine,” he croaks.

“No, dude. You’re not.” I rest my hand on his upper back. He sinks under my touch and then drops his head into his hands again.

I take a seat next to him, leaving my arm around his shoulders, and just like that, we’re twelve again, and my best friend is crying on my shoulder—the one place where he can, knowing I won’t judge him, and whatever happens here is between us.

“I didn’t mean that, what I said about your dad picking me. I was a dick, and I’m sorry.”

He nods and coughs out a soft laugh.

“Yeah, that was low, dude. But that . . . that’s not it.”

I know.

“You wanna talk about it?”

I hold my breath, my stomach twisting the longer his silence stretches on. After nearly a minute he lifts his head, sniffling as he rocks back, and I let my hand fall away. His head swivels until our eyes meet, and his are swollen and red. He shrugs a shoulder.

“My dad’s sick, Noah. He doesn’t know that I know. Neither does my mom. But I . . . I know he’s sick. He wasn’t on a golf trip. He was getting a second opinion on his options. I heard him and my mom talking about it over Thanksgiving. And when I heard you call and beg my dad to let you play Santa this year, I talked him into it. I knew he was putting off the second opinion until after the holidays because he didn’t want to leave Frankie hanging. And because he loves that fucking red suit, man.”

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