Page 3 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

I swallow down the lies piling up and squint as I glare at the horizon. If Anthony ever finds out I don’t need any hours, that I made the whole damn thing up, he’s going to knock my teeth in.

“Forty, I think? Maybe more. I’m not sure. I’ve gotta look.” Forty seems like a lot. But it also doesn’t seem like enough time for me to make things right with Frankie.

“Damn, okay. We can still skate in the mornings. And when my dad gets back in town, I know he’ll want to spend time with you on the ice.” Anthony pats an open palm against my chest, and I manage to remember the entire reason I was coming to see him in the first place.

“Hey, you coming over for dinner?” I tilt my head toward my house.

“Your mom’s meatballs? Uh, yeah.”

The two of us trudge up my driveway together, his sister’s invitation quickly lost under the mountain of bullshit and lies.Ho, ho, ho.

2/

frankie bardot

I’m a Grinch.I’ve never been one before, but this year? My holiday spirit is in the toilet.

It was enough to hype myself up to face Noah over break, knowing he and my brother would be inseparable. I planned on using my dad as the buffer. He’d shuffle the boys off to the arena to get their morning skating in and maybe some side work, then come back in the afternoon to hang out with me at the North Pole. But just as he always does, Noah Drake came along and screwed it all up—made it about him. As if my life hasn’t already been enough about him.

Even my North Pole looks more like an alleyway right now. This set is only a few years old, but the backdrop is dingy and faded. I guess when the storage area is a metal shed tucked in the corner of our yard, I shouldn’t expect much.

“Do you want to build everything first? Or paint first?” My best friend Mazy raises both fists, one clutching a roller, the other a hammer. My shoulders drop with my sigh, and I reach for the hammer.

“I guess it’s easier to paint standing up, so grab the nails.”

I bend down, grab the cutout toy factory by the roofline, and lift it in place. My high school theater friends and I built this setthree years ago using some of the leftover pieces from our winter production that year. It’s not the most professional-looking backdrop, but it makes for some pretty photos when the colors are bright, and the lights are strung. Besides, kids are happy if you put a cheery Santa in the middle of just about anything. Well, except for the ones who are terrified. My dad is always good at easing fears. This season, though? I can’t say I’ll blame any of them for running away from the new Santa.Imposter.

Mazy hands me a few nails that I hold between my lips. She lifts the adjoining wall, and I shift the wooden brace in place while balancing the hammer and reaching toward my mouth for a nail.

“You need a hand?”

Noah’s voice seems to come out of nowhere, and I nearly swallow the remaining nails. I drop the brace, and it slides down the boards and onto the rubber carpet atop the ice. I thought he would still be at the arena with my brother. It’s why I got my ass up this early in the first place.

“Yes, please!” Mazy says, her tone full of relief. As far as best friends go, she’s practically award-winning. But she’s not exactly coordinated. Or strong. Or . . . handy. She’s incredibly nice, though. And usually, that’s enough for me.

“I got it,” Noah says, taking over the weight. His effort makes my side feel lighter too, and the seam between the two pieces is gone now that he’s holding them together. It’s too bad I have to stand up and look him in the eyes. If I could hammer the pieces together from down here, I wouldn’t hate his gesture as much as I’m going to in three, two, one . . .

“That’s Mazy, by the way. I know how easily you forget people.” I utter the words as I rise, and by the time our eyes meet, my mouth is locked into a hard line.

Noah’s nostrils flare with his quiet exhale, and his head tilts slightly.

“I went to Miller Brook, too, Frankie. I know Mazy.” He blinks slowly, then rolls his head to turn his attention to my friend. “Hi, Mazy. It’s nice to see you.”

“Hi, Noah.” Mazy’s mouth pulls into that tight, embarrassed smile that makes her dimples double and turns her cheeks bright pink. When it comes to Noah Drake, Mazy and I have always agreed on one thing—he’s probably the hottest male ever to share our zip code. But where Mazy’s crush stopped at looks, mine went a whole lot deeper. I loved the way Noah’s voice changed over the years. I felt joy when I heard his laugh. When he got injured his freshman year of college and came home for surgery, I promised not to tell my brother when I saw him cry. And maybe that’s why I kept last summer’s kiss to myself. Because hot as he may be and as sweet as I always hoped he secretly was, Noah Drake is, in fact, a dog.

“I know who Mazy is,” he whispers at me from the other side of the set. I can see half his face peeking around the fake chimney, and I narrow my eyes and stare into his left eyeball. I wish I could reach out and poke it.

“I was being glib.” I position a nail against the wood and haul my arm back to give the hammer a swing. I pound it in after three solid smacks.

“Glib. Is that another word for mean?” His voice is low, but not so low that Mazy can’t hear bits and pieces of this conversation.

I step back and heave out a short breath before meeting his gaze.

“Yep. It sure is,” I say before nodding toward the next portion of the set.

Noah grabs one end while Mazy holds the other, and between the three of us, we manage to steady the largest part of the folding backdrop in place so I can hammer in the last few braces.

“You should consider putting hinges on these for next year,” Noah says, tapping his fingertip on the last brace after my final hammer blow.

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