Page 45 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“Well, he’s probably still a little angry. But we’re good. We worked through things.”

I exhale and let my shoulders drop, but the worry on Noah’s face is stubborn.

“You’re breaking up with me.” The words rush out of my mouth like vomit. I might vomit. I can’t believe this.

“No, no, no,” he says, grasping my biceps and dipping his head to look me in the eyes—which I’m sure are a bit wild right now. My heart is pounding against my breastbone. I feel like a human subwoofer.

“I promise you, Frankie. I am never, like, ever breaking up with you. This?”—he points between his chest and mine—“It’s all up to you. You call every shot. I’m not going anywhere unless you make me. And even then, you would probably have to beg me to leave you alone because . . .”

He swallows hard.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

I nod nervously.

“Okay,” I mutter, moving into his chest so he can hug me again. He holds me to him, my cheek over his heart, his heart drumming as fast as mine.

“Your brother wants to talk to you, and then I think your family has plans. I’m sure my mom wouldn’t mind a little one-on-one time putting extra ornaments on the tree. So how aboutthis—when you’re done across the street, come on over. I hear you ladies like the Hallmark channel. And we have cocoa.

I eye him skeptically, my pulse still kicking hard.

“Are you sure you don’t just want to watch Hallmark? I mean, it’s kind of sexist to say it’s only for girls,” I joke because lightening the mood feels necessary.

Noah rolls his shoulders and puts on an embarrassed expression, squeezing his eyes shut before popping just one open and holding up his open palm.

“You got me. I’m the one who wants to watchThe Goldendoodle and the Single Dad.”

I laugh because that’s genuinely funny. Also, that sounds amazing.

“That better be real,” I say to him, tugging on the center of his jersey and pointing for effect.

“I swear it,” he says, drawing an X over his chest.

I study his features for one more second before giving in and turning to join my brother. By the time I glance over my shoulder, Noah’s back is to me, and he’s heading toward the locker room. When my gaze meets my brother’s, I’m hit with the same expression Noah just tried to erase from his face. And that’s when I know something is really wrong. Something big. I stop a step below where my brother stands.

“What is it?”

His eyes scan the arena, and only a few people are hanging around now, mostly other players and their families. That’s when it dawns on me that our parents aren’t here. My legs feel weak.

“Whoa,” Anthony says, catching me as my knees buckle. I flatten my palms on the bleacher seat as he steps in next to me and helps me sit. He keeps his arm around me. I’m grateful. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

“It’s Dad,” he utters after a few long seconds.

My gaze snaps to his. The tears are instant.

“Hey, he’s going to be okay,” he says, pulling my head toward him and kissing the crown.

I sniffle.

“You promise?”

His pregnant pause makes me quiver, and he squeezes me tighter, then nudges my chin to look him in the eyes again.

“I promise,” he says. And while I’m not a thousand percent sure he means it. I can tell by the resolve in his eyes that he will move heaven and earth to keep it. And right now, that’s enough.

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