Page 49 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

He never seems to get enough sleep, even if it’s ten hours a night.

I’m less scared now than when I first found out, though. Anthony and I are both scheduled to get tested next week. I think my brother is more worried about the blood draw than anything. For such a rugged, aggressive guy, he’s a bit of a wimp when it comes to needles. Not me. I would take the blood myself and walk it in right now if it meant I got the results faster.

“Pretty solid crowd,” Noah says over my shoulder.

His hands massage my shoulders, and I do my best to release the tension and let them fall back in place. Between prepping for tonight’s Christmas Eve dinner and finishing up at the photo booth and, well, my dad, I’ve been a bit stressed.

“It always is.” I sigh. I love seeing so many people gather and share a meal together, but I don’t love how many of them count on this meal. It’s the reason I’m going into community work.

“You did good,” he says, circling his arms around me and rocking us side to side. I grasp his arms and admire the room. It’s not half bad for a bunch of décor bought from the dollar store.

“You did, too,” I say, glancing at the boxes of food stacked on the far side of the room.

“I got you a little something.”

I turn to face him with squinted eyes. We agreed we wouldn’t exchange gifts because my life is so chaotic and I won’t have time to shop.

“I know we had a deal, but it’s a simple thing. And I really think you’ll love it. At least, I hope you do.”

Eying him sideways, I fall in step as he walks backward and leads me to the community center kitchen. The room is thick with the scent of beef broth, roasted turkey, and honey ham. Everything left over is on simmer and warm since my mom and I are the only cooks. I haven’t made a plate yet. I like to make sure everyone gets seated and fed first, but damn . . . I’m hungry.

Noah stops at the door to the business office, where I changed for the last time this season into this snug and revealing green dress. At least being inside, I get to wear my furry boots. I know the kids like to see Santa and his helper skate during breaks, and part of the charm of the photo booth is that it’s right off the ice. But this year was especially cold. Noah and his damn, accurate snow forecast.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

I narrow my eyes but follow his request, folding my hands over my face. Noah’s hands land on my shoulders, and he spins me around.

“I’m closing my eyes! Why do I need to turn around?”

“I don’t trust you. You were gonna peek,” he teases.I think.

“I don’t like that you don’t trust me,” I grumble.

“Were you going to peek?”

Was I? Damn it!

“Fine,” I huff.

He chuckles, and I hear rustling tissue paper. Such a boy. I bet he stuffed my gift in a bag. He turns me around and pulls one of my hands from my face, hooking a heavy bag on my finger. The red tissue paper still has the purchase sticker on one corner, and the price tag for the bag is hooked along with the gift tag, which is blank.

“It’s about what’s inside, not the wrapping,” he huffs, clearly noticing my scrutiny.

“Yes, true. You’re right.” I pull the paper away.

My hands touch the familiar stitching immediately.

“Really?” I flash my gaze to Noah as I let the bag fall away, and I hug his high school hoodie to my chest.

“It was always supposed to be yours,” he says, taking it from my hands and gathering it up so I can slip my head inside. I may still be Santa’s helper, but there’s no law that says she can’t also be a Noah Drake fan.

I hold the collar up to my nose and breathe in his scent.

“I always wanted this thing,” I admit. And by always, I mean since his junior year when the school gave it to him.

“It looks good on you.” He smiles, admiring me and sinking his hands in his pockets.

“You look good on me,” I reply, twisting in half circles so my skirt sways against my hips. I hug the front of the hoodie to me, and Noah closes the gap between us then tugs on the strings.

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