Page 10 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“Just don’t pick anything up in front of anyone and you should be fine,” Mazy advises through the crunch of pretzels she’s stuffing into her mouth.

I spin around and face her in my kitchen, having just bent down to pluck my meal prep container from the bottom shelf of the fridge.

“Is it that bad?” I wince.

She pauses with her half-eaten pretzel an inch from her lips.

“I mean, bad is subjective. You’ll probably get a lot more tips.”

I cover my face with my hands and groan.

“It’s not that bad, Frankie.”

I peel a few of my fingers away to glare at her.

“I literally have to pick small children up all afternoon to help them onto Santa’s lap.”And Santa happens to be the one guy I want to be modest in front of most.

“Maybe wear bloomers underneath,” she says.

My chin drops to my chest, and I shudder with a short, frustrated laugh.

“I’mwearingbloomers.” I lift my skirt to reveal very short shorts, shifting my hip to the side so she can see how high up they ride.

She chuckles.

“All I’m saying is, I wish I looked like that in bloomers.” She pops another pretzel in her mouth, the crunch irritating me now.

“Yeah, well, I’m not at the club. I’m at Santa’s Workshop.” I shimmy my skirt down as low as it will ride on my hips. Because the outfit is basically a one-piece, though, it rides up the second I lift my arms again.

“That’s it. I’m putting sweatpants on underneath,” I grumble, moving toward the stairs. Mazy grabs my wrist and stops me before I get too far. She levels me with a wry smirk and a hard stare.

“Are you afraid of being feminine in front of strangers, or are you afraid of being sexy in front of Noah Drake?”

I exhale and let my gaze wander to the side as I chew at the inside of my mouth.

“A little of both. But mostly, looking likethis—” I fluff up my skirt up with my hands. “In front of Noah.”

My friend takes both of my hands in hers and shakes them twice.

“I’m your best friend, Frankie. And I will never lie to you. Agreed?”

I nod, knowing she’s ninety-nine percent genuine. She would spare my feelings with a small, meaningless fib, but only rarely. Mazy has always told me the truth. She’s also told meeverything. Which makes the fact I haven’t told her about the kiss sit even heavier in my stomach.

“Will you maybe get some extra looks from a handful of dads who show up tonight? Probably. Some moms? Maybe. It will be brief and quickly forgotten. But when it comes to making an impression on Noah, one that he will etch into his memory and torture himself with all winter long? That’s a definite yes. Miller Brook’s favorite playboy goalie will be obsessed. And if one of us has a chance to bring that boy to his knees, I say we take it.”

I hold her gaze for a beat and consider that word choice—obsessed.Noah said he was as much. I figured he was simply trying to get under my skin, but maybe he truly does regret how he left things between us this summer. I wouldn’t mind torturing him a little more, let him really see what he missed out on, what he could have had.

“You’re right,” I finally say, squeezing her hands before letting go to gather my keys, phone, water bottle, and afternoon snacks into a small backpack.

“That’s my girl!”

Mazy follows me out the door, heading to her car, which is parked on the street. She pulls the bright yellow sailor hat from her back pocket and clips it to her hair to hold it in place. She’s working at the custard stand downtown over the holiday break, and as self-conscious as I may be about wearing this short, green costume dress, she’s the exact opposite, wearing her bright yellow egg-shaped outfit loud and proud.

I snag my skates from the garage and rush to my car in the driveway, dumping my blades and backpack on the backseat floor before sliding into the driver’s seat and cranking the engine to get the heat going. I rub my hands together in front of the vent and remind myself there are heaters near the photo booth, and the nylon tights I’m wearing will help stave off some of the chill after a lap or two around the rink.

After a quick touch-up of my lipstick and double check of my lashes and hair, I pull out of our neighborhood and make my way to the workshop set. I spot Noah’s Bronco near the arena, where he’s skating with my brother. I check my watch, noting he still has five minutes before he’s late. Not that I have any recourse, or am even his boss. At least not formally. This is my project, though. I started it, and the community center has come to count on the funds raised to buy extra food to feed the low-income seniors and members of our community every Christmas Eve. There is no way I’m letting Noah mess that up.

I set my backpack into the small lockbox behind the background, then sit on top of it, using it as a bench as I lace up my skates. It’s been a while since I’ve taken to the ice. My North Carolina campus doesn’t have the same easy access to ice for skating. I find my balance and slowly glide out to the middle of the rink, moving to the left and right until I find my usual rhythm and pick up speed. After a lap, I test my legs and shift to skate backward. I’ve never been more than a novice at figure skating, but by the end of last winter, I was able to do a slow spin and single axel. Granted, my arms usually flail aimlessly at my sides to maintain my balance. I might score a two, maybe a two and a half, in a competition. But I can land it—most of the time.

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