Page 16 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

The air is crisp enough that I can see my breath. I form an O and puff out a cloud of white fog that glows under the new LED park lights. My lips tingle, but not from the chill. This vibration is from knowing Noah and I are completely alone. Our vehicles are the only two left. Skating rentals at the rink shut down thirtyminutes ago, and a park ranger won’t be here to lock up the gates for at least an hour.

I swallow down the dry lump that is continuously reforming as Noah shifts his weight, digging the toes of his shoes into the frost-covered pavement. He draws a half circle with a sharp edge, like half a heart, and I hold my breath, hoping he’ll finish it. Instead, he erases it with his other foot, adjusts the weight of his duffel, and skates slung over his opposite shoulder.

“One down, eleven more shifts to go,” I say, mostly to break the awkward silence. My heart is thundering so loud, I fear Noah can hear it.

His lip tugs up on one side as he drops his chin and pivots his head until our eyes meet.

“It wasn’t so bad.”

I focus on his lips through the brief stream of fog that escapes with his words. No wonder he was the best kiss I ever had. Just look at that mouth.

“You ready?” I tilt my head to the side toward my car.

“Sure,” he hums, shifting the weight of his bag and dragging his slide shoes along the ground. His socks are Tiff University blue with a tiny yellow lightning bolt on the toes. Such a big man for such adorable socks. I smile to myself.

Noah tugs my backpack from my shoulder when we reach my car, opening the driver’s side door for me, then dumping my bag in the back seat. His massive body, draped in red velvet and white fur, hovers in the tight space between the open door and my left thigh, and I can’t stop envisioning what might happen if I were to simply step one foot out and touch his chest.

“Drive safe, okay? I can’t handle the line of irritable parents by myself,” he says. He takes a step back, and a rush of cool air fills the void. I glance to my arm and realize I’m still wearing Norris’s coat.

“Oh, no!”

I tug at the sleeve, staring at it while I chew at the inside of my cheek.

“I know where he lives. I can drop it off on my way home,” Noah offers.

I squint as I glare up at him.

“Are you sure?”

He nods, holding out his hand.

I shimmy the coat from my arms and slip it around my body before handing it to him. He folds it over his arm, then raps his fingers against the edge of the door.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

It feels like we’re stalling. I’m willing to admitI’mstalling. And everything in my gut says Noah is too. I hate that it feels so good to be nervous in his presence. I chased this feeling for nearly half my life, clamoring for him to glance my way, or to honor me with a silly compliment about a new pair of shoes or the color of my prom dress.

“Good night, Noah.” I reach for the door myself and tug it shut. Because if I leave things to him, I have a feeling we would spend half the night floundering around a real conversation in the middle of a parking lot.

Unless, of course, he asked me to stand and face him. And then ran his palm along my cheek, brushing the small hairs from my skin with the pad of his thumb. Then leaned in and kissed me. Again. Just the way he did before.

6/

noah

I’m such a chicken.And I’m not sure who I’m more afraid of—Frankie or her brother. Maybe it’s a combination of them both.

That was my moment.Themoment. I didn’t kiss her last night, and now I’m never going to get the chance again. I feel it like a rock sitting heavy in my gut.

I blew it.

To top things off, I was basically a zombie at the bar last night, and it felt as though Anthony was grilling me the whole time. First, over the fact I barely finished a single beer. Second, when I didn’t lose my shit when the Bears scored a last-second touchdown before halftime. And then when I excused myself early before they pulled off what I’ll admit was a huge upset win that everyone will be talking about until the new year.

The only thing I am absolutely sure of is that my old Warrior goalie stick is getting a new home. I simply need to figure out where Conner Graham lives. And find a way to get it out of this locker room without Anthony asking me a dozen questions.

“You want to work the goal a little tomorrow morning?” He swats his hand towel in my direction before flipping open his locker.

---