Page 1 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

1/

noah drake

No matterhow old I am, coming home and sleeping in my childhood bedroom instantly makes me feel like I’m ten again. It’s a good feeling. A safe feeling. And if I close my eyes and lay back on the quilt my mom made from my old jerseys, I can almost convince myself I’m still that kid, the one whose entire world is wide open and possible.

Not that I don’t love the path I’m on. Hockey is everything to me. It’s the thread that’s held the important people in my life together, tethering us through wins and losses, lessons and failures, comraderies and rivalries.

It’s how I met my best friend when I was the new kid in town. I saw Anthony Bardot playing street hockey out in front of his house with his dad, and they invited me to give it a try. It turns out I was good. Better than Anthony, but I would never say that to him, at least not sober.

Anthony is how I met Francesca—Frankie.His sister. A pain in our ass from day one. Less a pain inmyass when she turned fifteen and started high school. And by the time she was eighteen and ready to head off to college last summer? I was more annoyed when Anthony was around. Those tables totally turned.

The soft knock at my door stirs me from my daydream, and I prop myself up on my elbows as my mom pushes the door open a notch.

“I wasn’t sure if you were napping.” Her lips tug up on one side, that sweet-yet-judgmental little smirk she gives when she’s needling me about bad habits. I love a good nap. Always have. Some might call my naps actual sleeps, however, given the fact they usually last a good three hours.

“I got home ten minutes ago, Ma. I’m wide awake.” It takes massive willpower to hold in my yawn. I give in after a few seconds when my mom’s wry smile stretches into her cheek.

“Fine; I’m a little tired.” My mouth contorts as I moan my way through the rest of the yawn.

I swing my legs around and plop my feet on the floor, forcing myself to sit up. The first step to staying awake is getting my ass off this bed. My mom steps into my room and takes a seat beside me, lifting my arm up dropping it over her shoulder. She thinks she needs to trick me into hugging her, but the truth is, I like it.

“Did you tell Anthony to bring Frankie over for dinner tonight?” I flinch when my mom mentions her name, but I don’t think she notices. I haven’t seen Frankie since the summer—when I crossed that line I swore to myself—and her brother—I’d never cross.

“I don’t think she’s home yet.” I clear my throat as I stand, slipping my feet into my Birkenstocks before busying myself with the massive suitcase I stuffed with dirty laundry.

“She got home yesterday. Her finals were done a day early and she wanted to get a jump on setting up at the ice rink.”

Of course that’s the first thing Frankie did. She’s been playing Santa’s helper at the local rink since junior high. Her dad, Coach Bardot, plays Santa, and the local paper lends out their photographer for the season to help raise money for the community center’s holiday meal. Families drive hourssometimes just to lace up their skates on our outdoor rink and snap a pic with St. Nick when they’re done. And every ten bucks donated goes right back to the people in our community who need it most. I used to tease her about playing an elf, taunting her that her skin was turning green. But damn, if it isn’t one of the things I like about her most. In a selfish world, Frankie Bardot is anything but.

My mom’s hip bumps into mine, scooting me over so she can take over unloading my wadded-up sweatshirts and twisted jeans.

“I know they have washers and dryers at Tiff University,” she teases.

“Yeah, but my clothes smell so much better when you wash them.”

“Hmm, that’s because you don’t wash them. This suitcase?” She flips it shut and flattens her palm on top, half of my dirty clothes still sandwiched inside. “It stinks, Noah. Take the whole damn thing downstairs and shovel it in the wash.”

She props one hand on her hip as she leans her weight on my suitcase and levels me with a hard stare.

“Fine,” I huff playfully, tugging the suitcase toward me. I scurry out of her reach when I catch her rolling up one of my sweatshirts in my periphery. She swats at me and the sleeve grazes my thigh as I high step my way out of my room, my half-filled suitcase in my arms as I hoot with laughter on my way down the hallway.

“And find out if both Bardots are coming over for dinner tonight, would you?” she calls after me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I holler back.

The adrenaline rush is immediate. I didn’t exactly think I’d make it the entire winter break without seeing Frankie, but on my first day home? I was hoping to ease into a confrontation. I need more time to practice my words and perfect my excuses—not that an entire semester of radio silence wasn’t enough time. I kept putting it off because that’s what I do with hard things; I avoid them.

I flip open the top of the washer and push away the memory of Frankie’s plump bottom lip as I shovel the last dregs of dirty socks and wrinkled T-shirts into the bin. Like a sign from the universe, though, my old high school hockey hoodie is the last piece of clothing I grasp—the same one I gave Frankie when I walked her home from the summer bonfire four months ago. My thumb runs over the embroidered letters of my last name as I let my head rest against the dryer door and summon the feel of her cheek against the pad of my thumb instead. She wore this sweatshirt home that night after I kissed her in the middle of the street between our two houses. I wanted her to keep it. Instead, she threw it at me a week later from the passenger window of her dad’s truck as he drove her to the airport for her freshman year at Harbor State.

My phone buzzes in my pocket so I let go of the sweatshirt—and the memory—to close the washer door and start the cycle. I check the message alert as I head from the mudroom into the garage and feel around in the dark for the garage door opener. I barely register that it’s a nearly nude pic from one of the Tiff puck bunnies. I press the button and shuffle toward the rolling door as I scratch at the back of my neck and stare at my phone screen. Getting pics like these used to shock me. Now? My message apps are filled with them. I don’t even think half of them are real people, but rather AI bots trying to scam me into being their hockey-playing sugar daddy. The attention really ramped up this year, thanks to the rumors that I may be heading to Calgary.

I need to text Anthony about dinner, but before I can swipe my screen away from the image of the blonde stranger wearing a cropped hockey jersey—the hem only low enough to cover halfof each nipple—I’m blocked by a massive garment duffel being shoved into my chest.

“What the—” My phone tumbles from my hand as my gaze lands on Frankie.

“My dad says you volunteered to play Santa. So here you go. Don’t fuck it up.” Frankie’s eyes roll to the side and then down as she turns to march back across the street, but we both glance down at the same time, gazes locked on my very X-rated phone screen.

“Fuck,” I mouth to myself, squeezing my eyes shut for a beat as if, somehow, I have the power to freeze time. Newsflash—I don’t.

---