Page 17 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“Sure. The sprints are good for me, too, though.” I shrug, surprisingly not as winded as I was yesterday. I don’t even remember the last set of sprints. Maybe I blacked out.

“Yeah, I know. But I figured even the great Noah Drake could use some practice,” he says through laughter. There’s an acerbic tone in his voice. I’ve always sensed a little jealousy, but I try really damn hard to make Anthony feel like my equal. I’m getting a little tired of diminishing myself to make him feel better. Or maybe this feeling comes back to Frankie. Perhaps I’m just tired of him telling me to stay away.

I roll my neck and rub the back of it.

“I’ve never said I’m too good for practice, dude.”

He slumps down on the bench a few feet to my left, tugging his T-shirt and practice jersey over his head before tossing them into the open duffel now at his feet.

“Yeah, I know. I was just fucking around.”

I drop my chin and roll my head to the side, forcing a smile I don’t mean on my mouth. He’s fucking around, but he never finds out. Isn’t that how the saying goes?

“You know, I’m sure my sister would sign whatever form you need for school to say you volunteered those hours. I bet we can find other people to take some of the shifts.” He stands and grabs his body wash and a clean towel, turning to point a finger at me as he backs away toward the showers.

“I don’t like cheating,” I say.

He laughs loudly this time, his head falling back as his palm flattens on his stomach.

I scowl, but he ignores my expression and points at me again.

“You’re fucking hilarious.”

His laughter fills the steam-filled locker area and follows him all the way to the showers as I hunker down for a few minutes and consider his words. Is that really what he thinks of me? That I’m a cheater? Like at hockey? Or . . . life?

I run my towel over my head, drying my damp hair by hand before slipping on a clean undershirt. I’m not planning on being Disco Santa today, though it was kind of fun to catch Frankie looking at me like she wanted me.

I step into the red pants, deciding to wear my compression pants underneath this time. As heavy as this costume is, it’s shit at keeping a body warm. Once my outfit is complete, my beard tucked in my pocket, and my gear bag packed, I snag my old hockey stick and speed out of the locker room before Anthony is done with his shower. He’s got ten minutes before he has to report to the ice for the kids’ camp, so I doubt he’ll pay a visit to his sister and me out in Santa’s Village.

I tuck the stick on the floor of the back seat of the Bronco just as Frankie pulls up next to me. My pulse quickens, and I feel like a dork for being so excited that she parked right next to me, but I am. It makes it a lot less obvious when I walk her to her car, and maybe I’ll find a way to recreate last night’s magic.

I’m grabbing my skates from the back when she peers through the window on the passenger side of my SUV.

“Hi,” she says, fogging up the glass while she spies at me through binoculars made of her hands. She steps back, leaving two circles in the condensation, then completes the drawing with a dot for the nose and a huge U-shaped smile.

“You’re happy this morning.” I chuckle. I wasn’t happy until now.

“Yeah, I guess I am. Yesterday was fun.” She shrugs, then steps around the front of my Bronco to meet me by the driver’s side. She taps my chin with a cold fingertip, and I pretend to bite it. I’m relieved when she giggles. I can be playful with her.

“I mean, your beard is missing. There might be kids out here.”

“Oh, yeah. Good point.” I snatch it from my pocket and loop it around my head and ears, pressing the sticky part under the mustache to my upper lip, but it slips loose right away.

“I’m not sure this thing is going to make it through the season.” I blow upward at the fake white hair that’s sticking to my lips.

“Hmm, come with me.”

Frankie tugs the white fluff on my sleeve, and though it’s not quite holding hands, it feels a little like it. I let her drag me out to the public ice rink, where she unlocks the side gate for the red carpet that leads to our workshop set. My eyes scan the rink, and I raise my hand and bellow, “Ho, ho, ho,” when a little girl skating with who I guess is her mom pauses to stare at me. She tugs her mom’s sleeve, and the woman bends down, nodding before the two of them skate in our direction.

“Sorry, I think I snagged our first customer. Whatever this fix is, I hope you can deploy it quickly.”

“I can. Don’t worry. You just take a seat on your chair. You can put your skates on there.” She literally slaps my ass to send me on my way, and I yelp a little, just loud enough for her. At least, I hope that’s all it was.

I scurry to my chair and slip off my slide shoes so I can lace up my skates. Frankie flips open a lockbox and pulls out a small pink bag. She rushes over to me, stopping to greet the little girl and her mom on her way. She instructs them to wait behind the set, shielding us in case this beard business gets tricky.

“He’ll be ready in one minute. Santa likes to skate during his breaks, so he’s getting his blades on.” Frankie sells the story easily, and when the little girl bounces excitedly, I feel as though I want to, too.

“Hold still,” she says, unzipping the small bag and pulling out what looks like fake eyelashes.

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