Page 30 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“Why were you so late?” He tilts his head toward the door to the ice just before stepping into his boxers then slipping on a gray long-sleeved shirt. “You hurt or something?”

He sprays deodorant under his arms, wafting the side of his shirt to air it out. His expression is the same as when he’s holding a shit hand of cards on poker night. He’s playing polite,probably waiting for me to let my guard down so he can take a good swing.

I clutch the sides of the wooden bench I’m straddling and lean back as I weigh my options. Truth? Or partial truth? Do I say I’m tired because I was up late talking with your sister about everything from what she wants to do after college to the fact her brother probably knows we’ve been hooking up? Or do I totally redirect him?

“We’re running short with the fundraiser so I was thinking about other things we could do to raise money, and next thing I know, I’m clearing out our pantry and starting a food drive.”

Redirect it is.

“Food drive, huh?” His mouth bunches, and he squints one eye, kind of like he’s examining me for my tells.

I inhale and lift my shoulders.

“I have four plastic tubs in my Bronco, and that’s from my house alone.”

Anthony nods to himself, continuing to change from his practice clothes into a fresh jersey and sweats so he can work with the kids at camp.

“Why don’t we ask some of the AHL guys who are here if they’d do a little charity scrimmage? You can play. I’ll play. Some of the high school players. My dad is coming back a few days early. He could play or coach a team. I bet people would pay to play and pay to watch.”

It’s actually a pretty good idea.

“Your dad’s back?” Of course that’s what I focus on.

“Yeah. Why? You want him to suit up again? I’m sure he’d be willing to sign off on whatever number of hours you need and take over the rest of the shifts.” Anthony closes his locker and leans his shoulder against the door, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks at me. His lips are puckered yet tinged with the slightest smile.

“Unless my sister is growing on you?” Yeah, there’s the probing question I was waiting for. Not direct. He’s never direct. Anthony Bardot loves to be passive aggressive.

I stand up slowly, weighing all my routes—both verbally and physically. My insides feel as if I’ve swallowed a bucket of magnets that are pulling me to the ground. I don’t want to argue with him about Frankie right now. Mostly, I don’t want him to tell me all his reasons why I need to walk away. I’m not sure I care about his reasons. Especially when they seem to point at how much of an unworthy cheater I am.

“I like this scrimmage idea. Mind if I bring it up to your sister today? I think she’s stressed about the fundraiser.” I kick my leg over the bench and stand so our shoulders are squared up. I drop my hands in my pockets, making myself defenseless should he boil over and throw a punch. His hazed eyes stare into mine, that gotcha smirk still in place. Finally, he nods.

“Sure. Run it by the boss and see what she says.”

I grab my duffel from the ground and sling it over one shoulder, patting my friend on the shoulder with my free hand as I pass him.

“Thanks for the idea.”

I pass through the stands at the arena, behind the parents who got there early. I spot Conner lacing up his skates on the other side of the ice, his mom with him today. I hope his dad is back at work. My stress is so petty compared to what they must feel.

I duck out the side door before more kids arrive and anyone spots me and move my Bronco to the same far parking spot as yesterday. Frankie is already at the set, setting up extra lights. She mentioned she was planning to bring a few more strands. She hopes the extra bling will attract more customers. Most of the regulars at the outdoor rink have already ponied up for aphoto session. And I’m sure we’ll start to get more people out here soon just to visit the photo booth.

She finishes stapling one of the strands along the roofline of the set, carefully stepping down from the small stoop. I realize I held my breath the entire time, not wanting her to slip and fall. I hold up a hand to greet her when she glances my way.

I slip out of the driver’s side, a little bummed to see more people at the park today. The snow melted off this morning, so the dog park is bustling with activity. And the hot chocolate stand is finally open. All these things are great for business. Not so great for lifting your girlfriend’s skirt.

Whoa. Girlfriend.

I slip out of the Bronco before that thought can freak me out any more than it has in the half-second it took to think it. I slip my sweatpants off and tug the red velvet pants up over my thermal compression pants. I decided to break out the serious layers today. That snowfall last night brought a steady breeze behind it, and it’s a good ten degrees colder today.

I work my beard into place using my window reflection as a mirror, then grab the rolling bin from the back of my Bronco. I’d bring all four out to display sample donations, but my mom and I packed several pounds of nonperishables. Frankie will have to work with whatever’s in this one with wheels. She meets me at the entry gate as I roll the green and red tub up the sidewalk.

“More lights?” Her eyebrows shoot up near her hairline in excitement.

I pause, my hand on the edge of the lid, and drop my chin as my eyes close.

“Wow, I’m afraid this is going to seem like a big letdown now. I’m afraid it’s just . . .”

I pull the lid up, and she peers inside. Her brow scrunches, and she bends down to pick up the box of bowtie pasta.

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