Page 53 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“Oh, you called him handsome. And we all know he’s an ugly motherfucker,” I joke.

“Hey,” Anthony replies, lifting his free hand to flip me off.

“Careful, you’ll lose your IV,” I say. He flips me off again, and his mom softly slaps at the hand she’s holding.

“I see you’re recovering just fine,” she says.

“Mmm, yeah. They gave me some pain meds, and I hear I might get Jell-O later, so—” He whirls a finger in the air. “How’s Dad?” He tries to sit up a little but quickly winces and relents to staying put.

“Probably two more hours. They’ll come get me in here,” his mom says.

I clear her blanket and bag from the chair and scoot it to Anthony’s bedside so she can sit by her son. I poke my head out into the hallway and spot two other chairs, and swallowing mypride, ask my neck-cracking critic if we can borrow them. She agrees when I promise not to crack a single joint for the rest of the day.

The four of us sit in Anthony’s room while he dozes in and out. I get a decent signal near his window, so I manage to bring up the stream of the game for the last four minutes. Tiff ends up winning three to one.

It’s amazing how quickly an entire day can pass, yet at the same time seem to drag on for eternity. The sun sets while we’re in Anthony’s room, and the chill of winter fogs the glass. The sun was rising when we arrived to start the day. A celestial event passed in the time it took to move an organ from one body to another.

I haven’t done a thing, yet I’m exhausted. I know Frankie is. I tried to get her to sleep in the waiting room, but she was too wound up. The longer we sit with Anthony, the mumbling of game show reruns spilling from the TV mounted high on his wall, the heavier her eyelids get. Eventually, she succumbs. I cover her with the blanket her mom brought and leave my arm around the back of her chair in case I fall asleep too. I want to feel her wake up.

“Hey,” Anthony whispers after a few quiet minutes.

I drop my head forward, and he nods toward his mom, who is passed out in her chair.

“Can you get her a pillow? That’s going to kill her neck.”

I slip away from Frankie and grab the extra pillow from his bed.

“Apparently, not as much as cracking it will,” I mutter.

“Huh?” he says.

“Never mind.” I forget he hasn’t been awake and with us all day.

I slip the pillow behind his mom’s head, and she stirs but falls back to sleep quickly after patting my arm and calling me a sweet boy.

“You always get the credit, don’t you?” Anthony grumbles.

I chuckle as I move back to my seat. The room is quiet minus the faint chatter at the nurses’ station just outside his door and the steady beep of his monitor. The game shows have shifted to the news.

“Are you sore?” I nod toward his abdomen. He looks down at his hospital gown and shrugs.

“I’m not sure. I think I’m high. There’s a lot of tape and shit.”

We both laugh, and he winces again.

“Yeah, I’m sore.”

I glance to my side to check on Frankie, pulling the cover up her body a little more.

“Thanks for being here,” Anthony says. “Not for me, but for her. For them.”

His eyes roam from Frankie to his mom.

“Of course. I made a promise.”

Our eyes lock for a beat, and his mouth ticks up in a short but accepting smile.

“I’m glad it’s you. I mean, I am high as fuck so take it for what it’s worth, but if my sister had to fall in love with someone . . . I’m glad it’s you.”

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