10. Noah

10 /

noah

Because my mom is usually the only one in the house, our pantry is awfully full. Even when my dad and I are home, we have too much food on hand.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. How much we have. How much others need.

Frankie worries we’ll be short on covering what the community center buys for the holiday meal. But what about every other day? Miller Brook doesn’t have a food bank. Or much of anything else in the realm of assistance. Sure, Chicago is only a little over an hour away, but an hour away feels like a lifetime when you’re struggling.

I start to stack some of the staples from our pantry on the counter. Canned vegetables galore in a household that maybe cracks open one can of vegetables a week. Lots of pastas, most of them in sealed packages. Easy-make dinner options. I cooked a lot of this stuff when I was in high school because it was quick and easy, and I could knock it out and eat it between school and practice. But my mom still buys it as if I’m here eating at the same rate. I have a feeling a lot of this gets tossed, and that makes my chest hurt.

“You looking for something, honey?” My mom’s shoulder brushes against mine as she peers into the pantry with me. I hold up a can of green beans, check the date on the label, then turn it toward her.

“You planning on eating this soon?”

She bunches her brow, shifting her head to give me a slight sideways look.

“Are you saying you want it? You can have it. It’s not exactly breakfast food, but . . . whatever you want.”

I sigh and move the can to join the growing pyramid on the counter. I swivel the can of mixed vegetables in my other hand, checking the date. It’s the same. Good for another two years. I don’t bother asking this time. I move it to the pile and step into the pantry to look for more food.

“I’m sorry, am I not buying the right things? I know tastes change. And usually it’s just me, so?—”

“That’s actually the thing,” I interject. I hold up two boxes of the exact same type of pasta. “Do you eat this when Dad and I are gone?”

She studies the front of the box, her eyes narrowing.

“Sometimes. I can make a box, and it will keep as leftovers for a few days.”

A box. A few days.

I leave one on the shelf and move the other to the counter.

“Noah, what’s this all about?” She steps out of the tight space in the pantry and leans her back against the fridge. Her expression feels full of concern, eyes dim, mouth tight.

I sigh and lean against the pantry door jamb.

“I gave my high school goalie stick to this kid who came to the Santa workshop the other day. He wanted a new one, not as nice as mine, and I found out that there was no way in hell his parents could afford it. And I don’t know, I just started thinking . . . what else can’t they afford?”

“Oh. I see,” my mom says. Her eyes soften, and her gaze shifts to the stocked shelves in the pantry. I rub my temples, feeling guilty for lots of things, but mostly that we have two of every pasta.

“I know this isn’t going to make a difference, but?—”

“No, it will.” My mom waves off my dismissal. She steps into the pantry and fills her arms with cans, moving them to the counter. She rests her hands on her hips and huffs out a breath, blowing up at her overgrown bangs before our eyes meet.

“Cliché or not, every little action has power. Imagine if nobody stopped to notice or care, and nobody packed up food to share with others who need it? Then nobody would be trying to solve a problem. But you are. And maybe there are a few other people thinking the same thoughts, and what if they see you bring this giant box of food to the photo booth today? They’ll think maybe there really is something they could do. And maybe they’ll tell others. That’s how conversations get started. How movements begin. It only takes one person to start something with a chance of getting big.”

I scratch at my growing scruff and smile as my cheek presses into my palm.

“I’m one person,” I say.

“And now we’re two.”

My mom steps back into the pantry, gathering more food items. She sends me out to the garage to grab a few of the storage bins that are currently empty because the Christmas decorations are all up. We fill four of them, and I transfer them to the Bronco before heading to the arena.

Anthony’s truck was gone well before I left. I’m not sure if he made a stop somewhere along the way or simply headed straight to the arena to get in some extra skating. The one thing I am sure of is that he left early to avoid me. And I left late to avoid him. I don’t need to confirm any of it. Some things a person can just feel in their gut—like food poisoning. Friendship betrayal is one of them, too.

The group on the ice is about fifteen strong by the time I suit up and stretch. I jump in for sprints just as Anthony exits the ice, and he goes out of his way to avoid eye contact. We share a house at Tiff. We’re teammates. Hell, we’re best friends. No matter how awkward this conversation is bound to be, we need to have it. And a day off the ice isn’t going to kill me. I’m one of the top five college goalies in the country. My skills will not slip simply because I skip a day of sprints.

I wait just long enough for Anthony to be mid-shower, and I fake a tight quad and exit the ice. I lumber back into the locker room and strip out of my hockey gear, slipping my Tiff sweatshirt on along with my black sweatpants. It’s early yet. I don’t need to be Santa right now.

I wait on the bench between my locker space and Anthony’s, and when he finally shuffles out of the showers and spots me, he pauses for a beat, probably running through any alternative exit plan at his disposal. There isn’t one. The only way out is by me.

“You got an early start.” I figure any conversation must begin somewhere.

“Yeah, you know. Maybe if I put in a little extra when I can, Coach will give me some actual minutes for this year.” He flicks open his locker and lets his towel drop to his feet. His very naked body is very close. I scoot back on the bench to give us both some space.

“Why were you so late?” He tilts his head toward the door to the ice just before stepping into his boxers then slipping on a gray long-sleeved shirt. “You hurt or something?”

He sprays deodorant under his arms, wafting the side of his shirt to air it out. His expression is the same as when he’s holding a shit hand of cards on poker night. He’s playing polite, probably waiting for me to let my guard down so he can take a good swing.

I clutch the sides of the wooden bench I’m straddling and lean back as I weigh my options. Truth? Or partial truth? Do I say I’m tired because I was up late talking with your sister about everything from what she wants to do after college to the fact her brother probably knows we’ve been hooking up? Or do I totally redirect him?

“We’re running short with the fundraiser so I was thinking about other things we could do to raise money, and next thing I know, I’m clearing out our pantry and starting a food drive.”

Redirect it is.

“Food drive, huh?” His mouth bunches, and he squints one eye, kind of like he’s examining me for my tells.

I inhale and lift my shoulders.

“I have four plastic tubs in my Bronco, and that’s from my house alone.”

Anthony nods to himself, continuing to change from his practice clothes into a fresh jersey and sweats so he can work with the kids at camp.

“Why don’t we ask some of the AHL guys who are here if they’d do a little charity scrimmage? You can play. I’ll play. Some of the high school players. My dad is coming back a few days early. He could play or coach a team. I bet people would pay to play and pay to watch.”

It’s actually a pretty good idea.

“Your dad’s back?” Of course that’s what I focus on.

“Yeah. Why? You want him to suit up again? I’m sure he’d be willing to sign off on whatever number of hours you need and take over the rest of the shifts.” Anthony closes his locker and leans his shoulder against the door, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks at me. His lips are puckered yet tinged with the slightest smile.

“Unless my sister is growing on you?” Yeah, there’s the probing question I was waiting for. Not direct. He’s never direct. Anthony Bardot loves to be passive aggressive.

I stand up slowly, weighing all my routes—both verbally and physically. My insides feel as if I’ve swallowed a bucket of magnets that are pulling me to the ground. I don’t want to argue with him about Frankie right now. Mostly, I don’t want him to tell me all his reasons why I need to walk away. I’m not sure I care about his reasons. Especially when they seem to point at how much of an unworthy cheater I am.

“I like this scrimmage idea. Mind if I bring it up to your sister today? I think she’s stressed about the fundraiser.” I kick my leg over the bench and stand so our shoulders are squared up. I drop my hands in my pockets, making myself defenseless should he boil over and throw a punch. His hazed eyes stare into mine, that gotcha smirk still in place. Finally, he nods.

“Sure. Run it by the boss and see what she says.”

I grab my duffel from the ground and sling it over one shoulder, patting my friend on the shoulder with my free hand as I pass him.

“Thanks for the idea.”

I pass through the stands at the arena, behind the parents who got there early. I spot Conner lacing up his skates on the other side of the ice, his mom with him today. I hope his dad is back at work. My stress is so petty compared to what they must feel.

I duck out the side door before more kids arrive and anyone spots me and move my Bronco to the same far parking spot as yesterday. Frankie is already at the set, setting up extra lights. She mentioned she was planning to bring a few more strands. She hopes the extra bling will attract more customers. Most of the regulars at the outdoor rink have already ponied up for a photo session. And I’m sure we’ll start to get more people out here soon just to visit the photo booth.

She finishes stapling one of the strands along the roofline of the set, carefully stepping down from the small stoop. I realize I held my breath the entire time, not wanting her to slip and fall. I hold up a hand to greet her when she glances my way.

I slip out of the driver’s side, a little bummed to see more people at the park today. The snow melted off this morning, so the dog park is bustling with activity. And the hot chocolate stand is finally open. All these things are great for business. Not so great for lifting your girlfriend’s skirt.

Whoa. Girlfriend.

I slip out of the Bronco before that thought can freak me out any more than it has in the half-second it took to think it. I slip my sweatpants off and tug the red velvet pants up over my thermal compression pants. I decided to break out the serious layers today. That snowfall last night brought a steady breeze behind it, and it’s a good ten degrees colder today.

I work my beard into place using my window reflection as a mirror, then grab the rolling bin from the back of my Bronco. I’d bring all four out to display sample donations, but my mom and I packed several pounds of nonperishables. Frankie will have to work with whatever’s in this one with wheels. She meets me at the entry gate as I roll the green and red tub up the sidewalk.

“More lights?” Her eyebrows shoot up near her hairline in excitement.

I pause, my hand on the edge of the lid, and drop my chin as my eyes close.

“Wow, I’m afraid this is going to seem like a big letdown now. I’m afraid it’s just . . .”

I pull the lid up, and she peers inside. Her brow scrunches, and she bends down to pick up the box of bowtie pasta.

“Groceries?” She quirks a brow at me.

“Yeah, so after our talk last night, I got to thinking . . . what if we could maybe do more than just raise money? The people who show up for the community dinner probably need some of the basics in their kitchen for the other days too, and?—”

I’m cut off by her lips on my mouth and her arms around my neck. My hands fall to her waist as my laughter breaks up our kiss.

“Okay, maybe this wasn’t the letdown I worried it would be.”

“Noah, this is such a great idea. It’s perfect. And you know what? I’m going to call Mazy and have her make us a sign to get more food donations.” She flips up her skirt on the side to expose a hidden pocket in her new skin-tinted leggings. She pulls out her phone, then catches my wide-eyed gaze, pausing to laugh.

“You want a pair?” She pulls the fabric out from her thigh, then lets it snap back in place.

“I mean, yeah. Kind of. Women have the coolest things.”

She purses her lips, but her smile doesn’t totally disappear.

“We have a lot of the shittiest things, too. Don’t go thinking a secret pocket makes up for it all.” She looks up at me with a hard glare as she drops her chin. I nod.

“Point taken,” I say as she swipes to Mazy’s contact info and paces down the walkway as she talks to her friend. She sneezes three or four times during her conversation, sniffling by the time she wanders back to me and ends her call.

I give her a sideways look, and she holds up a palm, skirting past me to head toward Norris, who just pulled in with his equipment.

“Don’t say a word. I am not getting sick. If we don’t acknowledge it, it doesn’t happen.”

I shake my head and laugh quietly as I trail behind her. “I don’t think you can trick germs and viruses like that, but I admire your willpower.”

She sneezes again, her back to me, then quickly flashes her middle finger over her shoulder.

“I’m not saying a word,” I laugh out.

She sneezes again and spins around.

“You just did. Now zip it.” She draws an invisible zipper across my mouth, and I hold up two fingers in Goalie’s honor.

When she turns around and sneezes again, I keep my mouth shut. But I also make a mental shopping list for all the things I need for the care package she’s going to need me to deliver by morning.