Page 5 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“Wow, I mean. Okay, then.” He holds up his brush in one hand, the can of paint dangling from the other, and slowly backs away from me.

In an attempt to double the space between us, I rush to the other side of the set, brushing my hip along the fresh paint. The denim snags on the particle board as I pass, and I silently pray it’s not as bad as it felt, but the white blotch that stretches from the side pocket on my overalls to the edge of the back pocket quashes any hope.

“Damn it!” I set down my can and twist my hips to get a better look at the scope of the damage.

“If you wash it right now, it will come right out. Here,” Noah says, setting his paint and brush down and gesturing for me to follow him toward the arena.

I don’t want to follow him anywhere, but I also don’t want to ruin my favorite piece of clothing.

“Ugh,” I grumble, balling my fisted hands to my sides as I follow Noah’s lead.

As we near the building, the smacks from sticks slapping at pucks perforate the air, and the scraping sound of skates on ice broken up by periodic whistles fills my ears as soon as Noah swings open the entry door.

“Follow me. Nobody’s in the locker room, and I have extra sweats in my bag.” Noah keeps walking along the glass, but I pause for a second, not sure I need to be heading into a closed space with him, putting on his clothes.

My brother’s voice hits my ears, and I glance toward the ice where he’s standing in the middle of the rink, coaching whistle perched on his bottom lip. Anthony looks so much like our dad out there, from his posture to the way he pulls his beanie down low to cover his ears. He’s running the winter camp, the same one he and Noah used to participate in when they were young.

“Thirty seconds to catch your breath, then we go again!” He skates along the line of exhausted twelve-year-olds, eying them for strengths and weaknesses. He wants to be a coach when he finishes at Tiff, and though he didn’t quite have what it takes to start in college, I think he’ll be incredible, leading young players through the ropes.

“Frankie, come on!” Noah whisper-shouts from between the sets of stands. My feet instinctually rush forward, though I haven’t quite decided whether to follow him into the locker room.

Noah’s gaze bounces between me and my brother, raising his hand after a few seconds and urging me to hurry. By the time I reach him, he’s bouncing on his toes like one of the kids waiting in line to see Santa at the photo station.

“Calm down. I’m hurrying,” I huff. His hand flattens on my back as I pass him, and he urges me forward, guiding me around a corner and through the locker room door. I spin around the second I’m inside and shove my palms into his chest.

“What the hell, Noah!”

His eyes flash wide, like a mouse trapped in a corner, and he flattens his back against the door.

“Just because nobody’s in here doesn’t meanyoushould be in here. Can we hurry up?” His eyes somehow widen more through his words, and I glance around the space to see the discarded towels from the men’s groups who were in here earlier this morning. The steam from their showers still hangs in the air.

“Point taken,” I relent, and his shoulders drop.

“Second row, third locker in. Grab the blue sweats and toss me your pants.”

I count my way to his space and chuckle lightly at the unlatched lock dangling from his locker.

“You know the point of a lock is to keep your shit safe,” I utter, unhooking the metal from the latch and opening the door. His body wash and a comb sit on the upper shelf, a tan towel dangles from the hook on the back, and a pair of sweats sits neatly folded on the bottom. I pick them up and hold them near my nose to see if there’s any hint of his body wash or cologne on the fabric. I feel a little drunk on the scent and once again debate which is more important—my favorite overalls or my resolve.

“You know, I can buy my own ticket, right?”

My brow pulls in and I lean around the corner to glance at him.

“Huh?”

“The concert. It’s not like an invite-only thing. I could just buy my own ticket and go.” He drops his hands in his pockets and leans his head to the side, his mouth curved a hint. He’s challenging me.

I shrug.

“It’s country. And I know you hate country. But sure. If you want to spend your money on going to a concert by yourself, have at it.” I form a fist and mouth, “Yeah,” as I pump it, mocking him.

“I don’t hate country.”

I chuckle and step back to the hidden space in front of his locker.

“Yeah, okay. Like I said. Have at it.” I unhook my overalls and slip the denim down my hips, wrangling my shoes through the legs so I don’t have to untie them. My skin beads up from the cold as I stand in my red bikini underwear and a long-sleeved gray shirt.

“Maybe I will,” Noah says, his voice sounding closer than before. I clutch his sweatpants in my hands and hold my breath. My gaze drops to my discarded pants, and my pulse throbs in my ears. My eyes flutter shut, and I hover in the land of possibility for a few reckless seconds.

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