Page 46 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

Frankie’s dadhas polycystic kidney disease.

It’s not terribly uncommon, and it can usually be managed with careful diet, exercise, medication, and dialysis. But not his.

Steven Bardot didn’t see it coming. He thought the headaches were part of his job. He’s a machinist, and before people started paying attention to things like hearing damage, he didn’t exactly follow protocol and wear the right protection. He thought maybe it could have been the effects of years of pick-up hockey, too, or from coaching kids half his life. When he started to get dizzy, his wife made him get answers.

Hypertension seemed obvious enough; he’s in his late fifties. And his diet has always relied heavily on drive-thru windows. But then the kidney tests came back. In less than a month, he went from being the stubborn man putting off the doctor to the guy in need of a new kidney.

I filled my mom in on everything Anthony told me, and I’ve been waiting on our front stoop for the last hour for Frankie to step outside. It started snowing about ten minutes ago, hard enough to dust the ground between our houses. They’ll need to clear the roads by morning. Winter is here.

I pull the knit cap lower on my head, covering my ears, then blow into my hands again before stuffing them into the pockets of my winter coat. The warm glow from the Bardot house across the streets catches my gaze as Frankie opens the door. She’s not dressed for this weather, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt and purple unicorn slippers, but she shuts the door and walks in my direction anyhow.

I get to my feet and jog toward her, scooping her into my arms so I can carry her to my warm room. Her head falls into my chest along the way, her eyes red but no longer wet from crying. My door slams shut with my kick, and I lay her down in my bed, pull off my jacket, and slip in beside her under the quilt made of my jerseys.

“You said it was going to snow,” she mutters. Her voice seems emotionless.

I stroke her hair and kiss her forehead.

“I did. I kind of cheated, though,” I admit.

Her eyes flutter up to meet mine.

“You aren’t a cheater,” she says, still defending me against her brother’s accusation. A tight smile hits my lips, and I slowly blink my appreciation.

“Okay, maybe I didn’tcheat.I simply used my resources. I have a really nerdy weather app, and my favorite guy who posts on there wrote that the science pointed to snow.”

“Ah,” she says, her voice and her body listless.

The back of my hand brushes along her cheek, sweeping away a few stray hairs. She reaches up and presses my palm to her face, then nestles into my pillow and stares at me.

“Tell me about your dad,” she says.

Her ask surprises me a little. I wasn’t sure if she wanted to talk or sleep or watch mindless videos, but I figured it would be one of those routes. Talking about fathers was at the bottom ofmy list. I flinch a little, then roll to my back as she nestles into the crook of my neck.

“He misses cheeseburgers,” I laugh out.

Frankie’s amusement shakes her body against me.

“That’s deep stuff. You’re good at sharing,” she teases.

I tuck my chin to meet her gaze, and she’s quirking a brow. She’s not broken. Only hurt.

“Cheeseburgers areverydeep, I’ll have you know. When you’re married to the queen of the grill and perfect seasoning, going months without my mom’s special delicacy is a big deal.”

She nods, a tiny smile peeking through on her lips.

“Fair point. I’m still a little bitter that you didn’t invite me over for meatballs the first night you were home.” She holds my gaze hostage with her own wide eyes, and I quickly snap my mouth shut and nod.

“You are right. I owe you an apology. I was still afraid of you at the time, and you had just thrown a Santa suit at me.”

She play-slaps at my chest. I capture her hand and bring it to my mouth to kiss.

“You want me to share something real?” I know she does.

She nods faintly.

I run my fingers along the back of her hand, then thread our fingers together. I like the way our hands look together, her olive skin, mine pale and freckled. We would make a beautiful baby. And that thought doesn’t scare me like it should.

“Let’s see . . . my dad never pushed me to follow in his footsteps. That’s something,” I say. I’ve only realized the weight of his parenting as I got older. He never once mentioned the Army as an option for me or pushed me to fantasize about wearing a military uniform or serving as his dad did before him.

---