Page 21 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

I dash the urge quickly, though, when the wind picks up. The sun is long gone, and my body quakes from the cold. Noah takesthe pen cap from my hand and pushes it back in place, then swings his arm around me, holding me against his warm side as he rubs his palm up and down my shoulder.

“Thanks,” I chatter out. As cold as I am, I’m also now on fire from his touch.

He keeps his arm around me as we navigate our way up the bricked walkway. A few of the pavers shift under our weight, and dead grass is matted between many of them. Most of the yard is unkempt. Not junky, but definitely not tended to in months. What was probably overgrown grass and weeds in the late summer and fall is now tangles of straw, and dirt flower beds seem dug up in several spots, possibly from a dog.

“Maybe Santa needs to start a lawn service,” Noah says, scanning the yard on either side as we get closer to the door.

“Santa, or a certain high school hockey team,” I say, mostly teasing. Noah, however, reacts with a pensive expression, his lips puckered and brow low in thought.

Before I can question it, we reach the front door. There’s a large paper wreath hung around the peephole, cotton balls colored red with some kind of paint stuck haphazardly around the green paper leaves to look like berries. Conner’s name is scribbled on one of the leaves. Noah knocks just below it.

His chest expands with a deep breath as his arm slips from my body. Both of his hands clutch the stick as we hover a few feet from the doorway, waiting for someone to answer. Muted chatter grows louder until the deadbolt clicks unlocked, and the door creaks open.

“Oh!” the man says. Noah rests on his heels, as do I. I think we’re both relieved we got the right house.

“Mr. Graham?” Noah asks.

“Uh, hi. Santa?” Mr. Graham chuckles, and I cover my mouth with my fist, hiding my own laugh. This is a silly scene, no doubt.

“Babe, who is it?” A slender woman with short brown hair snakes under Mr. Graham’s arm. She jolts a touch when she takes in the two of us standing at her door.

“It’s Santa, hon,” Mr. Graham laughs softly.

“I see that,” she says, through a wide smile.

Noah leans in, lifting his beard a little as if either of them really thinks it’s Santa. It’s sweet.

“Your husband?—”

“I’m John, and this is Sarah,” the man says, holding out a hand. Noah shakes it, and then I do the same.

“Nice to meet you, John . . . Sarah. I’m . . .”

“Santa, I know who you are,” John says with a wink.

We all laugh softly.

“Yes, well. As I was saying, John brought Conner to visit me yesterday, and your son mentioned he’d really like the new Bauer goalie stick.”

Sarah’s shoulders drop as she looks up at her husband with a grimace.

“He’s been talking about it for months,” she says.

“Mmm, yeah. It’s a pretty cool stick,” Noah says. He shifts the one he’s been holding, planting the handle on the stoop and spinning it a little to show the scuffs in the light, along with his fresh signature.

“This one is a little different, though. He may need to grow into it, but it’s been used in a lot of games, and I’ve heard that this Noah Drake guy?” He taps on the signature, and I watch for John’s expression when he realizes exactly what this stick is. “He’s a pretty decent player.”

“You’re kidding me,” John says, cupping his mouth. “This stick is a lot more expensive than the one he wants.”

“I am not kidding. Merry Christmas,” Noah says, handing the stick to Sarah. She touches it tenderly, her gaze dancing betweenthe rest of us as her husband claps softly. Their youngest is probably inside asleep. Conner may be as well.

“You have no idea what a fan Conner is,” John says, shaking Noah’s hand again.

My forever crush’s cheeks burn a cherry red. I doubt the Grahams can see it. They don’t know where to look. As arrogant as Noah deserves to be, he’s never been good at receiving actual compliments for his gameplay. The fandom from girls and the hype at Tiff is different. John Graham and his son, and I’m guessing his wife very soon, arerealfans. Admirers, more appropriately. Hockey lovers who appreciate what makes Noah special.

“Three hundred forty-seven saves last year at Tiff,” I brag.

I feel the snap of attention from Noah’s gaze as soon as I rattle off his stats. His arm nudges mine, and I glance up at him and shrug.

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