Page 7 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

And just like good ole St. Nick, he disappears in a flash, and I’m left no longer wanting to kiss this boy but to instead somehow repel him.

3/

noah

I knewI should have packed a few more things to bring home over break. Sure, I would have had more laundry to do since literally everything I own up at campus needs a good wash, but at least I wouldn’t be sifting through two drawers of jeans and sweatpants and a few hangers of T-shirts and sweaters to find something remotely classy to wear to this concert I’m crashing tonight.

To be fair, going to the concert was Anthony’s idea. He’s still got a thing for his ex-girlfriend, and he found out she’s in town and planning on going. I’m not real keen on flirting with his sister in front of him, but it was hard to turn down his invitation. Especially after accidentally—maybe not totally accidentally—catching a glimpse of Frankie in those fucking sexy little panties.

I flip through the hung shirts in my closet one more time, hoping something new will appear this time around. When it doesn’t, I give in and head down the hall to my parents’ room. My mom sits in the middle of their bed with her laptop and a messy pile of notecards.

“How’s the book coming?” I ask as I hang in the doorway.

She pushes her reading glasses down her nose and peers at me over the red rims.

“You know, I think at this rate, I may just finish it within a year. Maybe two.” She pulls her glasses off, flips the screen shut, and pushes the computer to her side. She’s a legal assistant at a big firm downtown, but she’s always dreamed of writing a book. My dad bought her a new laptop for their anniversary two years ago, and she’s been pecking out the words for her first novel here and there ever since.

“It’s not a race.” My words make her mouth inch up on one side. She used to say the same thing to me when I got frustrated while working on my math homework at the kitchen table. I hated that I was stuck working on something I wasn’t good at while my friends were outside playing. But some things take time.

“Who made you so smart?”

“This woman who is the next great American author.” I get her to blush but also to stand and pull me in for a hug.

“I’m proud of you,” I say over her head as she folds into my chest. My height came from my dad’s side.

“Thanks, kiddo.” She pats my chest softly as she backs away, then looks me up and down. “You look nice.”

“Do I?” I quirk a brow and look down at my black shirt, stuffing the hem into the waist of my dark blue jeans.

“You always look nice in dark colors.” She brushes her palm along my right arm a few times, probably removing lint from my mostly sweatshirt wardrobe.

“Thanks. I just wish I brought home a button-down or two. You think I could borrow one of Dad’s?” My eyes squint with my question because I hate asking her to dig into his stuff when he’s deployed. She never says anything, but I sense that it makes her miss him. My dad’s been in Kuwait for nine months. I won’t see him until spring break, maybe.

“I know just the one,” my mom says, tapping her finger against the center of my chest.

I follow her to the closet, where she pulls out a black fitted button down, the sleeves already unbuttoned and ready to roll up a quarter of my arms. I smirk, seeing the near-permanent creases in the fabric.

“Yeah, I gave up getting him to iron his clothes a long time ago. He says he spends so much time holding an iron for his military uniform that he is protesting all other ironing,” she says, pulling it from the hanger and holding it open for me.

“I’m just going to wear it the same way, so it’s fine.” I pull my T-shirt off and slide my arms in one at a time.

I button it up, leaving the top two undone, and turn to face my mom. Her eyes crinkle at the edges, and she smiles as she straightens the collar and tugs the shirt down at the bottom so it sits just right.

“You look so much like he did at your age. Same size, too. It’s uncanny.” Her eyes well up, but I don’t say a word, instead letting her wipe the evidence away while I pretend I don’t notice.

“Thanks, Mom.” I drop my hands in my pockets as she takes a step back. Her eyes flit to mine then back to the center of my chest as she taps a finger to the side of her mouth.

“One last touch,” she says, moving to her dresser and opening the top drawer. She pulls out my dad’s watch case and opens the lid, pulling out the black and silver Tag Heuer.

“Mom, I can’t?—”

“Shh.” She grabs my wrist and tugs it into her so she can slip the watch around it. “Your dad doesn’t care. And it’s a nice touch. Besides, you’re trying to impress someone. This watch? It’s impressive.”

“I’m not trying to impress anyone.” I pucker my lips and tilt my head a hair, trying to sell the lie. My mom’s gaze holds mine, though, and it takes her about two seconds to conclude I’m full of shit.

“Noah, you’ve been trying to impress that girl since you hit puberty. I wish you realized you didn’t have to try so damn hard. Frankie’s already impressed. She’s been in love with you since sixth grade.”

My mouth hangs open just enough to make me look guilty. Because Iamguilty. But I don’t think I’ve been as obvious as my mom says. I didn’t start to think of Frankie inthatway until high school.

---