Page 4 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“That’s such a good idea,” Mazy beams. I roll my eyes and turn my back to them. The chill in the air is pretty biting, but if I don’t get a coat of paint on everything today, it won’t be ready in time for our first afternoon open tomorrow.

I crouch down and pop open the lid on the can of bright white before pouring half the gallon into one of the paint pans.

“Hey, Frankie. Since Noah is here now, would you mind if I took off so I can try to get a few more hours of sleep before the concert tonight?”

My eyes dart to Mazy’s face, and she gives me a wry grin as she lifts a shoulder. I dragged her out of bed at seven over winter break, and because she’s a good friend, she joined me without griping. And we are going to be out late at the concert tonight.

“Yeah, sure. It’s just paint, so I can do it alone if I need to.”

I flit my gaze to Noah for a beat. I’m giving him an out, too. I don’t need him soothing his guilt by joining me for handiwork.

“Thanks,” Mazy breathes out. She leans down to give me a hug, nearly dipping the ends of her blonde braids into the pan of paint. I scoop them up before they run into trouble, and she stares at me with wide eyes and a thankful expression.

“Nice to see you, Noah.” Her cheeks flash a bright red, and I swear she’s putting extra sway in her hips as she passes him. He holds up a palm and smiles through tightly closed lips.

“Careful. I think she likes you,” I say when my friend is far enough away for me to let my snark fly.

“At least one of you does,” he grumbles. Our eyes tangle for a second, and eventually, I stand up tall and huff out a short laugh.

“I liked you, too, once.” I hold the paint pan out for him to take, along with the brush. His thumb grazes the top of my handas he takes the brush, and it literally feels like he dragged a magic wand laced with morphine over my skin.

“Only that once, huh?” He quirks a brow, and I look away before I feel that pull he’s so good at using to draw me in.

“Yeah, just once. And look what that got me. Kiss ’em and forget ’em! Add me to your ledger, I guess.” I cringe at my own words, so I keep my back to him as I unwrap a second brush and hook my finger through the handle on the paint can. I’ve been holding my hurt in for months. Some petty shit is bound to come out the longer he’s around me. I don’t like the way it looks on me, though. I’m better than that. Than this.

His silence is a good sign that I caught him off guard with my words and maybe cut him a little too. His flirtatious smirk seems to have faded, and his gaze is lost in the smooth surface of the paint in his hands.

“It goes on the wood. Like in that movie,The Karate Kid. Paint the fence?” His eyes blink at me, and I mimic the famous movie scene, drawing my brush up and down in the air. Noah’s lip curls, and my stomach rushes with butterflies. That’s the dangerous feeling that will get me in trouble, so I cut it short, move to the opposite end of the winter set, and start to paint.

For several minutes, we work in silence, and it’s almost nice. The tingles on my skin—the ones I get simply from being near Noah—linger, though. And every time I catch him glancing in my direction, my chest grows warm. I need to remember that this feeling, it’s a trick.

He steps back to admire the section he painted, and I do the same. I think when we add in more of the red and black paint, it will look almost new again.

Noah swaps his white pan for the gallon of red. I get a little stuck watching his forearm muscles as he pries open the lid. Those arms used to be scrawny sticks. Now he’s a man.

“Do you have something to cover this with?”

I look away before he turns his attention to me. The last thing I need is him catching me admiring anything and thinking I’m open to messing around.

“No, but it should be fine sitting out for the night. Besides, everyone knows what this place is. You’d have to be a real dick to steal Santa’s workshop.”

“I meant to protect it from the snow,” he explains.

I squint at his words and shift my gaze to him, my mouth contorted to match my skepticism.

“We aren’t getting snow for at least two weeks, Noah.” It’s literally been the lead story on the local news for the last two days. It’s rare for us not to have a white Christmas, but according to the forecasters, this holiday is shaping up to be bone dry.

“I don’t know,” he muses, glancing up at the puffy clouds. He squints from their reflection as he makes a quarter turn, his expression serious. “I feel snow in the next few days.”

I study him as he stares up at the blue sky, the sun kissing his golden lashes, and the curled ends of his hair blowing around the hem of his beanie. He’s still wearing his gray sweatpants and the blue and gold Tiff University practice jersey, which he fills out a lot more than he did even a year ago. My dad was so proud when Noah and my brother were recruited together. A part of me has always wondered if Noah made the school take Anthony, too, as a condition. My brother is good, but he’s not Tiff good. I don’t think he’s left the bench more than a handful of times over the last two and a half years.

I spare a quick glance at his face one last time, the cut of his jaw, and slight stubble. His beard will grow in over the next two weeks. Of course, he’ll be wearing a long, white, fake one most of the time we’re together.

“So, this concert?—”

He drops his chin, and his gaze lands on me before I have a chance to mask what I fear is one of those ooey, gooey, admiringexpressions with doe eyes and parted lips. I call it Noah Drake Face. I’ve worked so hard to shed it. Like riding a bike, I guess. Slipped right back into practice. And judging by the smirk playing on his lips, Noah caught me.

“You aren’t invited,” I blurt out. A bit of an overreaction to a question he hasn’t even asked, but he caught me ogling.

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