Page 40 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“I do, too. Go find the muscle.” She pulls the tag and marches to the stand while I hunt down Noah and my brother. I find them arguing in the back corner of the lot, but they zip their lips when they spot me. I wave them toward me, and Noah jogs over while my brother sulks, his hands buried in the front of his hoodie.

“Your mom found one she likes. We’ll need to get it on the roof,” I explain.

“On it,” Noah says, jogging toward the cashier and his mom.

I throw my arm out to clothesline my brother as he starts to pass me, and he huffs but stops his feet.

“What is it?”

He won’t look me in the eyes. His best friend looks like a raccoon thanks to the bruises on his face, and Anthony is seriously the one feeling self-righteous tonight?

“You are going to get your ass over there and be polite, not for Noah, but for Linda. That woman babysat us. She fed us, and she took us to the fair when we were kids and let us ride the teacups until we threw up. This tree is important to her, and you and your pissy attitude are not going to fuck that up. Now, off you go.”

I give him a little push, and though he doesn’t move at first, he eventually grumbles his way over to the Drakes to help them wrap and load the tree.

The ride back to our neighborhood feels lighter. At least, it does for me. Noah’s mom takes the passenger seat on the trip back, and I sit in the middle in the back between my best friend and my brother. Anthony continues to pout, but I catch him joining a few of our conversations during the ride. He even shares a story about the awesome save Noah made during their last game before the break.

“So, what are your thoughts on the draft, then, Noah? Are the rumors true that Canada may get you out of the gate?” Mazy is simply trying to keep the conversation rolling, but for Anthony, it’s one compliment too many. I can feel his temperament shift next to me—his body growing stiff as he clears his throat throughout Noah’s response to my friend. Finally, he adjusts in his seat, his eyes on me but his attention on the rearview mirror.

“How’s your friend from Thanksgiving, Frankie?” He glances forward, I think trying to gauge Noah’s reaction. It’s a weird question, and I can’t feel the angle out.

“Gus? He’s . . . fine.” I swivel my head a bit, looking at Anthony sideways.

“Right. Gus. That’shisname,” he says, emphasizing the pronoun. And now everything is clear. Only, my brother is a dimwit, and he has no clue what he’sreallytalking about.

“Yes, Gus. I should probably send him a card. Thanks for reminding me.” My gaze flits up to the mirror, and I meet Noah’s eyes briefly. He doesn’t seem fazed. And in a moment, he’s going to have a really hard time not feeling smug.

“I’m sure he misses you. I bet he can’t wait for you to get back to Harbor. How did you two meet again?” My brother knows basically nothing. This is fun for me now.

“He was my partner for French conversation. He spent some time in France, so I really lucked out with him.” I turn my head to hold my brother’s stare, and his eyes dim with suspicion.

Yeah, buddy. This is backfiring.

“So, he’s . . . French?” Anthony is holding his breath, hoping so hard for this to pan out so he can rub my French friend in Noah’s face.

“No, he’s American. But he spent time in France. During the war. His wife is an artist from Belgium. They met when he was stationed over there. I think they just celebrated fifty years. When they invited me to stay with them for Thanksgiving, I simply couldn’t say no.”

I snap my lips closed and let my tight smile rest like a case closed.

“Gus is?—”

“A married senior citizen? Yeah. He is.”

Noah snorts in the front seat, and my brother smashes his fist against the headrest.

“Shut up,” he growls.

Mazy is the next to break. And soon, every single one of us is laughing. Everyone but Anthony, that is. He only shrinks deeper into his seat, and even through unloading the tree and helping to carry it inside, he doesn’t say another word.

14/

noah

Frankie’s dadreally seems to love playing Santa. My eyes cleared up by Tuesday—at least enough for a decent makeup job to cover the yellowed bruises—but I simply didn’t have the heart to wrestle the suit from his hands. And now that there are only three days left before Christmas, it only seems right to let the OG himself close out the season.

Honestly, though? I think he’s a way better Santa than me anyway. Frankie disagrees, and I don’t take her bias lightly because I know how much her dad means to her. To give me the Santa throne over him is a big deal. But I think she’s sidetracked by the fact I let her take the Santa jacket off me when we get home. It tips the scales.

Besides, the food drive has been keeping me plenty busy. We passed a thousand pounds in food collected yesterday. I contacted a non-profit that serves our town along with six others within a fifty-mile radius, and they agreed to make nightly pickups. We’re going to have food boxes for the night of the community dinner, using a lot of the food we’ve collected. We should be able to send everyone who attends home with a week’s worth of meals.

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