Page 22 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“I pay attention.”

“Noah, seriously. I can’t believe this. Are you sure? This is . . .” John weighs the stick in his palms. “It’s a lot.”

“I’m absolutely positive. It’s ready for the next great Miller Brook goalie. In fact, if you have time to take him to the arena by the park tomorrow around eleven, I’ll introduce him to the guy running the kids’ camp. I bet he can make room for one more.”

My face aches from my grin as I make mental notes to make sure my brother follows through on what Noah’s about to ask of him.

“Could we get a picture? I mean, with Santa. Maybe with Noah tomorrow,” John laughs out.

“Sure,” Noah says, shifting closer to me to make room for John to slide in next to him.

“Oh, wait. I’m not much of a North Pole resident in a Bears sweatshirt,” I say, slipping my arms out and pulling the sweaterover my head. I toss it to the side and shiver as the wind cuts through me.

“Okay, ready?” Sarah holds her phone out and snaps a few shots of the three of us, and then I step out of the frame so she can get a few of Noah and John together.

“I’ll print a few of these and put them in a box for Conner to open on Christmas. I’ll add a clue for where the hockey stick will be hidden.” She’s suddenly giddy, and the small injection of joy warms my insides.

My outsides, however? Freezing.

“It was really nice to meet you,” I say, rubbing my hands together and snagging my sweatshirt before skipping to the Bronco.

Noah gives Sarah a hug, then shakes John’s hand once more before jogging to catch up to me. He opens my door first, holding my hand to hoist me inside, then rushes around to his side to crank the engine and blast the heat.

“That was . . .” I stare with wonder at the fogged-up glass, my mouth open in a permanent smile.

“Amazing,” Noah finally finishes.

He leans over the wheel and rubs the windshield with the fur on his sleeve.

“Here,” I say, handing him my sweatshirt so he can clear the frost more easily.

When he’s able to see the roadway, he shifts into drive and carefully navigates us back to the main highway and over the bridge to the other side of town. He reaches the four-way stop by the small playground before the turn into our neighborhood, but instead of making it, he pulls close to the curb and shifts the Bronco into park, killing the lights before leaning back in his seat.

His hands grip the top of the steering wheel as he sucks in his bottom lip, eyes blinking methodically as he stares straight ahead.

“What is it?” I wonder if he’s having second thoughts about giving away a piece of his story. That stick was important to him, and I know he really wanted to give it to Conner. I’d understand if it stung a little, though.

“You know my saves number from last year?” His head rolls to the side, and our eyes meet.

My tongue peeks out, wetting my bottom lip.

“I do,” I say, my voice nearly a whisper.

“You pay attention.” His gaze is stuck on mine, and everything feels slow. His nostrils flex with each inhale and exhale. His lips move with what I think are nerves.

“I’ve always paid attention to you, Noah.” The weight of those words isn’t lost on me. It sits so heavy in my chest that I shudder with a single sob, but I quickly pull it together.

“I didn’t know what to say. This summer, before you left,” he continues.

My chest quakes.

“So you didn’t say anything?” My voice vibrates. I’m not sure whether I want to leap on him or slap him right now. Maybe both.

He peels the beard away from his face, scratching away the glue remnants as his gaze drops to my mouth.

“Anthony would kill me. I’m not boyfriend material,” he utters.

His gaze flits back up to mine. I unbuckle my seat belt and twist to face him. He does the same.

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