Page 8 of The Goalie and Santa's Little Helper

“I don’t think it’s like that, Mom. It’s just nice to see her. It’s been a while and?—”

“And since you kissed her this summer, things are . . . different?” She quirks a brow and knocks me back a step with that hammer drop only she can give.

“How—?”She saw that?

“I was on the couch by the window, working on my book. And you guys didn’t exactly hide it. You stopped under the streetlight.” She shrugs one shoulder and flashes a knowing, one-sided smile.

I run my palm down my face, then pinch the bridge of my nose, relenting to the fact that my mom always knows everything.

“Pretty sure I blew it after that,” I admit. Might as well get some advice from an expert on forgiveness. My dad is a big romantic, but he’s not great at remembering things—like anniversaries, birthdays, and dinner plans.

“I’m pretty sure you know how to get the girl, Noah. I’m not naïve. And I see the comments on your social media.”

My neck heats at the thought of my mom seeing the love I get from female fans. Sometimes they don’t keep the overt propositions like the one I got yesterday to my DMs. But I never really brought my high school girlfriends home to meet my parents for dinner or anything. I mean, I snuck a few into my room, and I definitely went on “camping trips” in the Bronco.

“Just be yourself. That’s the guy Frankie grew up making starry eyes at.”

I nod and wear a polite smile, but I’m not so sure being myself is going to cut it. And then there’s Anthony.

“I don’t think Anthony wants her making starry eyes at me.”

“Well, Anthony doesn’t get to decide who his sister looks at or how.” My mom shrugs and moves back to her bed, pulling her computer onto her lap and gathering the spread-out notecards into a neat pile.

She has a point. Also, it’s not her face that would get bashed in by his fist. Or his friendship lost. We’ve got the rest of the season, too, and we’re still roommates at the house by campus. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t want me fucking up his sister’s life.

But it’s not like she would up and change colleges now, especially since I won’t be at Tiff after this year. And my mom has a point; Frankie makes her own decisions. But so do I.

“Be myself, huh?”

“Yep,” my mom says, sliding her glasses back in place as she opens her computer again. Then, with a wave of her hand, she shoos me out the door.

I manage to keep the confidence she injected into me roaring through my veins as Anthony and I drive to the amphitheater. A group of women gathered at the beer tent give me long, hard stares, which helps to lift my shoulders and broaden my chest.

By the time Frankie shows up with Mazy, I’m ripe with self-sureness. And the second Anthony ditches me to go find his ex in the sea of blankets and chairs, I gulp down the rest of my beer and head toward Frankie at the merch stand.

“You’d look good in that one,” I say, my chin just over her shoulder as I point at the white T-shirt with the sunset image emblazoned on the chest.

“You just like that it’s white, and you can get it wet,” she shoots back. There’s a playfulness in her voice, though, and that gives me courage.

“I’m not saying Iwouldn’tlike that,” I admit.

“Pfft.” She rolls her head away from me and crosses her arms over her chest. She’s wearing a slim gray sweater with silver woven down the sleeves in a crisscross pattern. It stops right at her waist, where the tight jeans take over and tuck into a pair of knee-high black boots. My hands ache to trace along the curve of her hips.

“What will it be, miss?” The merch guy notices the same curves I just did, and when his gaze shifts to me, I flash a quick sneer.

“Do you have the white one in medium?”

I let out a short, quiet laugh, and Frankie’s head swivels so our eyes meet.

“I was going to pick that one anyway!”

“Sure, you were,” I tease.

Her eyes dim and she turns her attention back to the middle-aged man at the counter.

“Actually, wait. I’ll take the hoodie, in large.”

He nods and heads to the large box in the back to pull out a dark blue hoodie. A dull pain swells where my ribs meet, like a hole in my stomach.

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