Page 11 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

With my second lap under my belt and my legs finally warm, I bend my knees and stretch out my arms, then take a deep breath and push up from the ice. My toe pick catches the ice three quarters of the way through my turn, sending me into an awkward cartwheel-turned-summersault. I slide a dozen feet on my knees before finally coming to a stop and flopping on my ass. The cold bites hard.

“Oh, damn!” I shout, brushing ice from my knees and checking my tights for holes.

“You might be a bit rusty for tricks,” Noah says as he slides to a stop at my side. He kneels and holds out a hand.

I’m sure I’m a million shades of red, and not from frostbite. My face is hot, and I feel incredibly foolish. Plus, the skirt I was so worried about before is hiked up to my hips, and the crotch on my bloomers is cutting deep.

“Yeah, I forgot that skating isn’t quite like riding a bike,” I whine, taking Noah’s hand and grabbing hold of his bicep with my other.

“Yeah, it’s like riding a bike . . . on ice,” he says through a deep chuckle.

My eyes scan his legs as he helps me up, the red velvet of the Santa pants now damp and crusted with ice at the knees. As he hoists me to a complete stand, I fall into his chest, my feet skipping along the slick surface in a fury to find my balance. Noah’s hands drop to my waist, and he steadies me as he widens his stance.

“Whoa, you okay?” He dips his chin and meets my gaze.

I blink a few times, my focus still on the ice between us. His fingers at my chin, he nudges my face up until our eyes meet. His cheeks dimple with his smile, his breath a short laugh. I’m so embarrassed.

“I’m okay,” I breathe out, breaking our connection and pushing away from his steady hold.

I skate to the workshop without trying anything fancy and snag the small hand towel I left behind after yesterday’s painting session. I use it to brush the ice from my costume, then toss it to Noah as he skates up. He brushes off his knees, then tosses it back to me. It’s then I realize he’s not wearing a shirt under the fluffy red coat. His chest is on full display, all the way down to his belly button. And a little lower.

“Umm, it’s not really Magic Mike Meets Santa,” I say, gesturing to his exposed body and trying like hell not to swallow the sudden lump in my throat. He’s in better shape than I remember. Are these the same washboard abs he had at the lakeover the summer? No wonder I let him kiss me. And kissed him back.

“I was still kinda hot from skating sprints. I’ll button up when we get our first visitors.”

I nod before turning my back to him and mumbling quietly, “Or you could button up now so I don’t have to work so hard not to like you.”

“Huh?”

Shit. He heard that.

“Nothing,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. His smirk confirms my hunch.

If I’m going to get through the next two weeks, I need to focus on the job. Maybe Mazy was right, and we’ll end up getting more tips. Perhaps we’ll get a few adults and some of the college kids up on Santa’s lap. I mean, who can resist a sexy Santa and a naughty elf in a short skirt?

I punch the code into the lockbox and move my backpack aside so I can take out the box of tiny candy canes I stocked in here yesterday. I’m steadier on the rubber mat, so I stick to it while I rip open the package and avoid the ice until I have to skate around the photo backdrop and flip on the lights.

“I forgot how cool you make this look,” Noah says, hands on his hips, Santa coat still wide open.

I clear my throat and utter, “Thanks.”

His lip ticks up on one side when my gaze drops to the center of his chest.

“Guess it’s time to button up, huh?” He starts at the bottom, working his way up—slowly.

“You know, you can wear a shirt under that,” I mutter, moving back to the mat to turn on the blow-up reindeer and giant, glowing presents.

“It was sweaty. I’ll plan better tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

I glance over my shoulder, his chin tucked as he works the last button in place and pulls the fake beard from his pocket.

“It’s okay,” I say, not quite loud enough for him to hear. A part of me doesn’t want to let him off the hook. I’m sure he was sweaty after skating for the last two hours, but I also think he flaunted his bare chest in front of me on purpose.

“Hey, Frankie. You want me to set up like we did last year?” Norris Gibson’s grizzled voice fills my lungs with air. Part of it is relief that it’s no longer just Noah and me, but mostly I’m elated by the familiar warmth I get when I’m around the man who used to coach my dad back when he played hockey.

“Aww, it’s great to see you,” I say, hobbling toward the older man in the gray wool pageboy hat. I welcome his hug with my own, embracing him and inhaling the sweet scent of expensive cigar that always sticks to his scraggly beard. It’s his only indulgence. He’s been a fixture at our local newspaper for forty years. High school hockey coaching was his side gig.

“Always my favorite part of the year. You know, one of the younger photographers at the paper volunteered to work the booth this year, but I flexed my seniority.” He coughs out a laugh as Noah steps up to take his gear bag from him.

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