Page 44 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

Noah’s mom laughs at my side.

“I told him it would just take time. Boys . . . they can solve all their differences with sports.” She laughs it off, but I know it must be more. My brother’s reaction was more than just overprotective—he was vicious.

To top off the good news happening, the donations we collected at the gate for tonight’s game more than made up the difference in what we’re short of for the community dinner. There are at least four hundred people here, which for our town on a cold weekday night before Christmas? Yeah, that’s a miracle too.

With thirty seconds left in the scrimmage, my brother skates to the bench and holds out his stick for my dad. Dad shakes his head, not wanting to take it at first, but I know enough to know that my father can’t turn down a shot at being in a game. He loves hockey. He bleeds it. And after a little—very little—goadingfrom the bench, he takes the stick from my brother and enters the ice.

“If he hurts himself, I swear . . .” My mom stands up at my side and loops our arms together.

“Nobody will check him, Mom,” I comfort her.

She shrugs, then laughs out, “Yeah, but that man can hurt himself.”

True, he’s not as agile on his skates as he was a few years ago, but after a few laps, he seems to have found his legs again.

The crowd chantsCoachCoachCoachas one of the players passes my dad the puck. He maneuvers it around the goal, then moves to center ice as everyone clears out of the way. Noah crouches, and I do not envy this position he’s found himself in right now. He misses? He’s the joke of the night, the overrated hockey stud. He stops it? He’s the guy sleeping with the coach’s daughter, who couldn’t let up to be nice—not even on Christmas.

“I don’t know who to root for,” I laugh out.

“Well, I do,” my mom says at my side. She unloops our arms and cups her mouth.

“Make him eat that puck, babe!”

I laugh so hard tears prick my eyes. My dad skates toward the goal, and Noah shifts side-to-side, ready as always. I want to cover my eyes, but also, I don’t want to miss this. The closer my dad gets, the more serious they both seem, and then out of nowhere, Conner Graham skates onto the ice toward my dad, and the crowd goes even more nuts!

“Oh, no! Trick play!” I shout, cupping my mouth but grinning ear-to-ear behind my palm.

Conner taps his blade against the ice, rushing toward my dad, who passes him the puck, which he misses at first. My dad helps him get control of it, and he stays close as Conner edges his way closer to the goal. Noah lifts just enough to leave space under his legs, and with one quick push—and a littleextra muscle from my dad—the new town hero sends the puck through the five hole between Noah’s skates and into the back of the net.

The buzzer sounds, and my brother’s team breaks the tie, four to three. Noah pulls his mask off and leans on the goal, eyeing Conner as he skates in sloppy circles and holds his stick over his head. It’s notthestick. Not yet. That comes on Christmas.

My brother skates by and scoops Conner up, hoisting him onto his shoulder while the rest of the players pile around. Noah joins them, kneeling when my brother sets Conner back down, and the two of them bump fists before Conner flings his arms around the man who has my whole entire heart. I wipe the unexpected tears from my eyes and then turn to catch my mom doing the same.

We remain in our seats until the crowd finally clears. Most of the AHL players stuck around to sign autographs and a lot of people asked for photos with Noah. I’ve never seen the men in my life look so happy and proud.

“Hope the scouts don’t get this video,” I tease Noah when he finally makes his way off the ice.

He chuckles.

“That kid has a mean push shot, what can I say.”

“It was sweet,” I say, holding my hand to my chest. He swoops me into his arms and presses his mouth to mine, his hands splayed along my back and circling around me tighter when our kiss breaks, and I fall into his chest for a hug.

“Hey, you okay?” I hum at his ear.

His chin scratches against my neck as he nods.

“Yeah, just . . . that was fun. Ant and I had fun.”

I smile over his shoulder and close my eyes, knowing this means as much to him as it does to me.

“You two are always great together, even when you’re playing against each other. It was the perfect Christmas show,” I say, stepping back when his hold loosens.

His eyes linger on mine, the curve of his mouth not fully a smile, and the dent above his right brow the kind that comes with worry.

“Is he still angry?” I ask.

Noah shakes his head, then bunches his lips, glancing down with thought.

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