Page 52 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

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noah

We don’t get a verygood WiFi signal in the hospital. I feel like an asshole making constant trips outside to join the smokers—how are there still smokers?But I haven’t missed a single Tiff game and keeping tabs on how they’re doing against Western Nebraska without me makes it feel I’m supporting them in some small way.

“Score?” Frankie gets up from her seat when the elevator doors open.

“Still two, nothing,” I reply.

She sinks back in her chair, the outline of her body practically imprinted into the leather. I fall into mine and stretch my arm behind her back, assuming the position.

It’s surgery day. It’s also our first game after the holiday break, and it’s against a rival. There was zero chance my head would be in the game, and Coach agreed. Besides, it’s a good opportunity for the sophomore, Zach, who will need to fill my skates next season.

“Thank you.” Frankie flattens her open palm on my leg, and I place my hand in hers, just as I’ve done for the last three hours.

“You keep saying that, but there’s no place I would rather be than here.”

Her head falls against my shoulder, and I kiss the crown.

“Really? Because I’d rather be in San Diego. Or maybe Hawaii.”

We both shake with quiet laughter.

“Anthony’s awake,” her mom announces, reading a text update from the surgery station on her phone. Frankie leaps to her feet and rushes to her mom’s side as she approaches the information desk. I stand and stretch my arms above my head, then crack my neck.

“You shouldn’t do that,” one of the aides says as she replaces the coffee filter and starts a new drip.

“Stretch? Or shuffle my vertebrae?”

She snarls at me, then shuts the supply cabinet under the refreshment station with a little extraoomph.

“She doesn’t like me,” I whisper at Frankie’s side when she returns.

“It’s because she knows better, and you don’t.”

I rub my neck where I stretched it—cracked it—and Frankie’s gaze follows my hand.

“See?” she says.

“That’s not proof of her opinion. I was just giving it more thought.”

Frankie’s eyes narrow. The last time I cracked my neck in this room, the woman gave me a five-minute lesson on cervical damage and how often istoooften. She also handed me a pamphlet for anxiety and repetitive behavior, which, okay, that stuff was spot on. I really can’t argue with her. I crack my joints constantly out of habit. But I don’t think I’m doing any more damage than I am taking bodies into my chest on the ice.

“Come on,” Frankie says, snapping me out of my internal debate. “We can go see him.”

I shake my head and remember the important part of today. Miracles of modern medicine.

I snag my sweatshirt and Frankie’s backpack, slinging it over my shoulder as I take her hand on the opposite side. We follow her mom through the set of doors to the right of the security desk, and a nurse leads us to Anthony’s room. He’s been out of surgery for a little more than an hour. His dad has a few hours to go.

“Hey, handsome,” his mom says, dropping her bag and throw blanket on the chair next to his bed before stepping to his bedside and taking his hand.

“Did they do the nose job, too, then?” Anthony’s voice is a little groggy, and his eyes seem to not quite focus on us. His mom glances to me then to Frankie, her mouth in a confused smile.

“Hon, you donated a kidney,” she explains.

Anthony rolls his head against the mattress and then meets my gaze, his lips pursed though kind of sloppily and crooked.

“She didn’t get it,” he says. I replay his words in my head, then laugh.

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