Page 37 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“Your eye,” Frankie cries, rushing to my side and pressing her cool fingertips to my skin. I gaze at her, my left eye swelling enough that I can see my own cheek puffing up. I wrap my hand around her wrist.

“I’m sorry,” I croak.

She shakes her head.

“He made it all up. Did you know that? The volunteer hours? He doesn’t need volunteer hours. He was just trying to get in your?—”

“Enough!” his father shouts, shoving away from his son and pointing a rigid finger in his face. His dad’s jaw is clenched, and now Anthony looks like a little boy, too.

“In your room!” Mr. Bardot growls, pointing up the stairs. Anthony blinks at him defiantly until his dad jerks him toward the steps by his sleeve. “I don’t give a shit if you’re an adult. This is our house, and you willnotact like an animal in it. Go!”

His dad points up the stairs, and Anthony scales the steps with heavy stomps of his feet. His gaze sticks to mine, his eyes hazed with a resentment I’m not sure I’ll be able to overcome. I let him win, and look away.

“Noah, are you all right?” their mom asks, handing a cloth filled with ice to her daughter. Frankie presses it to my eye, and I wince.

“I’ll be fine. I’m really sorry. This is all my fault?—”

“Nonsense. You two don’t owe Anthony anything. And none of us are blind,” she says. My gaze flits to Mrs. Bardot, and Frankie glances at her mom, too. With a soft smile, her mom squeezes my shoulder and winks, then turns her attention to her husband, who is pacing at the bottom of the stairs.

“I ruined Christmas,” I mutter, taking over the cold compress. Anthony’s aim is a little too perfect. My face hurts.

“Stop it. You only ruined part of it,” she teases. I laugh, then wince.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, lifting my shirt to check the state of my ribs.

I cover her hand with mine.

“I can take a check to the body. And this . . .” I circle my face with my hand. “Not my first fight.”

She runs her hand through my hair and laughs softly.

“You hockey players are idiots.”

I nod and press the ice to my lip, hissing.Yep. That hurts too.

“You’re not wrong,” I agree.

Frankie leaves me sitting as she wets a second towel under the faucet and returns to dab lightly on my face. The pink on the towel isn’t as crimson as I expected. I’m going to have some scratches, but I don’t think anything is going to need stitches. I think I may have cracked one of Anthony’s ribs. I feel like shit over that.

“Santa may need some good makeup today,” I say, squinting as our eyes meet.

Her head tilts to the side as she studies me, pressing the wet cloth to my face a few times before her lip ticks up on the side and she grimaces.

“You’re going to need a sub today. No amount of makeup will cover this.”

“At least the original Santa is home. Maybe it’s good that your dad came back early,” I say.

She nods, but there’s a hint of regret pulling down the corners of her eyes. I recognize it because I feel it, too. This past week has been the best of my life. I love getting to do good deeds with her. I love hearing from the kids and talking with the families.

“Did you really make up needing volunteer hours?”

Shit. I was hoping she missed that part.

My molars gnash together as I let a tight-lipped, guilty smile push into my cheeks.

“Noah!” Her chastising of me is a bit playful, thank God.

I lift a shoulder and let my hand fall to my lip along with the ice pack.

---