14. Noah

14 /

noah

Frankie’s dad really seems to love playing Santa. My eyes cleared up by Tuesday—at least enough for a decent makeup job to cover the yellowed bruises—but I simply didn’t have the heart to wrestle the suit from his hands. And now that there are only three days left before Christmas, it only seems right to let the OG himself close out the season.

Honestly, though? I think he’s a way better Santa than me anyway. Frankie disagrees, and I don’t take her bias lightly because I know how much her dad means to her. To give me the Santa throne over him is a big deal. But I think she’s sidetracked by the fact I let her take the Santa jacket off me when we get home. It tips the scales.

Besides, the food drive has been keeping me plenty busy. We passed a thousand pounds in food collected yesterday. I contacted a non-profit that serves our town along with six others within a fifty-mile radius, and they agreed to make nightly pickups. We’re going to have food boxes for the night of the community dinner, using a lot of the food we’ve collected. We should be able to send everyone who attends home with a week’s worth of meals.

Whether we can pay the full bill for the meal this year is still Frankie’s biggest worry. As pissed as her brother may be at me—at us—he still loves his sister. He loves her enough to put the petty shit to the side for at least two hours tonight so we can play a charity scrimmage with a few of the AHL guys still using our ice.

“Should I coach as Santa?” Mr. Bardot asks me as he stands from the chair and dusts off his pants. He’s been candy-caned twice tonight. Somehow, I managed to make it through my tenure without having a single sticky peppermint glued to the suit or beard. I did have a few other unfortunate incidents, but I’m blocking those from my memory. All I know is Frankie’s mom, Kate, is a miracle worker with cleaning velvet.

“I mean, who can’t use a little Christmas magic in their corner? Can I play for Santa’s team?”

Really, though, the thought of playing for him again, even something so low-stakes and for fun, gives me a huge thrill. I just need to make sure word doesn’t get back to Tiff. They don’t like me risking injury.

“Santa it is, then,” he says, patting my shoulder with his heavy hand as he moves past me.

I wouldn’t say Coach Bardot is as excited about the idea of Frankie and me as a couple as his wife and my mom are, but he’s warmer to the idea than Anthony.

I’ve switched my skating to nights, letting my angry best friend take the mornings to get in his sprints and work out with the other guys. I’m used to working alone. And since Coach Bardot has been home, he’s shown up every night to take shots at me. He can only handle maybe an hour on the ice, though. He says his legs aren’t quite as conditioned as they once were, so when he’s done, I usually do sprints on my own while Frankie times me on her phone.

This scrimmage is all Anthony’s handiwork, and I made sure Frankie knew it. He planned the entire thing, and he’s the one who had the idea in the first place. I’m not sure why I want her to soften to him so much, especially since his names for me in the past few days have varied from selfish prick asshole to family wrecker , a term I don’t think he fully understands. I guess I don’t like the idea of our trio breaking up. And part of the reason I fell in love with Frankie in the first place is because I met her brother first. They need to be whole.

Frankie helps me box up the food for pickup, and I kiss her when her dad’s back is turned. He sneers when he catches us touching, again, not because he hates me, but rather, he hates the idea of any punk with his little girl. It’s fair. I’m sure one day when I’m a dad, I’ll feel the same way if I have a girl.

“You’ll be there for the game, right?”

She lifts on her toes to nuzzle her nose against mine.

“Right up on the glass.”

I take a mental picture of her excited, rosy face as I back away. I parked by the arena earlier today when I moved my gear to the locker room, so I jog to the arena to dress out and hit the ice a little early.

The locker room is empty, and the arena seems quiet on the other side of the door. I expect to be the only one on the ice when I head down the hallway in my skates. Anthony is the last person I expect and the precise person I want to avoid, at least until we have the comfort of others around to help us avoid talking to one another. But maybe this is the Christmas spirit at work, forcing us together. Alone.

“Hey,” I say, getting his attention before skating onto the ice. His head pops up from his stretch, and it’s obvious he’s been crying. I stare a little longer than I probably should. I can tell he’s trying to mask his emotions by the way he suddenly tucks his head and fakes the most ridiculous sounding sneeze I’ve ever heard. l glide so my back is to him to give him a moment. When he clears his throat, I move to the ice to stretch out my groin.

“I didn’t think you’d be so early,” he says. His eyes meet mine briefly, the hard line I’ve grown accustomed to on his mouth back in place.

“Funny, that’s what I assumed with you,” I say.

A short laugh slips out, and I almost catch a smile on his lips. Anthony is notoriously late to practice. It doesn’t help his case for more playing time, but at this point, being late is sort of baked into his personality. His dad has tried to get him to be punctual his entire life. At Tiff, we have a standing joke about him—everyone is told to report at a certain time, and then Anthony gets Ant Time, with an automatic five-minute buffer built in.

“So, how do you want to set this up? Random assignments or team captains pick teams?” I assume he’ll want to be a captain. I’m not sure I’d be on his recruitment list today.

“We could both be captains, split up, and maybe work out some aggression?” He quirks a brow, clearly amused by his suggestion. I suspect he’s only half being funny.

I fall back to sit on my ass and spread my legs to stretch my hamstrings, mulling over his suggestion.

“You gonna play fair? If you take shots at me?” The thought of him lowering a shoulder and blasting right through me has crossed my mind. I’m running thin on self-control, and my temper on the ice might not stay in check.

“Since when don’t I play fair?” He gets to his feet and works his blades on the ice, chuckling as he skates side to side.

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. I’m the cheater.” My sarcastic tone is thick.

Anthony slides to a hard stop, kicking up enough ice in my direction to make a point. I bite my tongue and give him a sideways look. Keep your shit together, Noah.

“You know you aren’t exactly the monogamous type. You like your . . . variety. I’ve watched you turn on your charm at Patty’s. What, is that suddenly going to stop when we go back? It’s not like Frankie will be around to monitor you.”

I get to my feet, keeping my gaze on the ice as I clear my throat and remind myself where his hostility is coming from. I close the gap between us but make sure we’re both out of easy reach. No sucker punches, either way.

“You ever stop to think maybe I really, really like your sister? And maybe this is different? Maybe I’ve felt like this for a long time and just kept shit to myself because I didn’t want to hurt my best friend. But man, the thought of not going for it and trying to have something special with someone I lo?—”

“Don’t you dare,” he interrupts.

He swivels back a few feet, his chin dropping as his eyes narrow on me, and he points with his glove.

“Those are just words, Noah. You don’t get to pretend they are real feelings. Not about her.”

I exhale and drop my gloves to the ice before holding out my bare palms.

“Just because you don’t want to hear it doesn’t mean it isn’t real, Ant. I love your sister. And yeah, I’ve loved her like family for, well, forever. But it changed. It’s been changing . . . for a while. And this summer?—”

“When you fucking crossed the line and kissed her before she was about to leave for college?” he shouts. I figured he knew.

“It wasn’t like I had some secret plot, man. We got really close this summer. I spent more time with her, just the two of us, and Frankie and I are a lot alike.”

Anthony spits out a laugh.

“Fuck that. She’s a social work major who wants to do good things in this world. You’re majoring in what? Hotels?”

I roll my neck and tilt my head, pursing my lips at his low insult. He’s always been better at school. He’s majoring in business, and I wanted something that would be easy to keep my grades up.

“It’s hospitality, asshole. But yeah, I agree, okay? Frankie is a better person than me. There, you win this one. Maybe I like that she is. She makes me want to be better. She makes me think about things other than hockey.”

“Yeah, well, that’s all you’re good at, so maybe you should stick with that.” His hard stare cuts me, and I hold my breath, the thinnest sliver of control left in my body, keeping me from racing the dozen or so feet between us and slamming his ass into the ice.

“You sure you want us both to be captains, Ant? I mean, you know your dad is going to coach my team and not yours, right?” My eyes harden, but my mouth waters with sudden nausea. That was a low blow, and it hit his rawest nerve. How could it not? Our entire lives, the fact his dad and I had a closer hockey bond than he and his father did has bothered him. Not once, though, did he let that resentment simmer to a boil.

His eyes well up, and he moves toward me slowly. He stops a few feet short and then throws his gloves at my chest.

“Fuck you, Noah.”

I catch one of his gloves, unable to look away from his heartbroken expression. I was cruel, but there is something bigger behind this.

He skates toward the boards and flings open the exit, the wood panel crashing against the wall as the hinges overextend. His hand slaps the glass before he heads down the hallway, right back to the locker room, and I remain stunned in place with nothing but my thoughts for the next several minutes. Only when another player enters the ice do I break from my thoughts.

“We aren’t starting for an hour, right?” one of the AHL guys asks me.

“Oh, uh. Yeah.” I recognize the guy as one of the forwards who came to talk to us at Tiff my freshman year. I should probably introduce myself to him, play the game, and start building the brand in case we end up on the same squad next year.

“I’ll be back in a minute. You good?” I start to skate backward, and he nods. I leave my gear on the goal, along with Anthony’s gloves, and follow in my friend’s footsteps, hoping I gave him enough time but also hoping I didn’t give him too much.

I push the locker room door open gently, a few guys laughing as they head my way. I hold the door open wide and nod, repeating what I said to the last guy, that I’ll be back in a minute. But when my attention lands on my best friend’s back, his shoulders shaking with his head slung forward and clutched in his hands, I realize nothing is going to be resolved in a minute. I might not be back out on that ice at all. Not if Anthony needs me.

His head lifts, and he turns slightly to the side as I approach. He lifts his left hand and waves me away.

“It’s fine. Just . . . I’m fine,” he croaks.

“No, dude. You’re not.” I rest my hand on his upper back. He sinks under my touch and then drops his head into his hands again.

I take a seat next to him, leaving my arm around his shoulders, and just like that, we’re twelve again, and my best friend is crying on my shoulder—the one place where he can, knowing I won’t judge him, and whatever happens here is between us.

“I didn’t mean that, what I said about your dad picking me. I was a dick, and I’m sorry.”

He nods and coughs out a soft laugh.

“Yeah, that was low, dude. But that . . . that’s not it.”

I know.

“You wanna talk about it?”

I hold my breath, my stomach twisting the longer his silence stretches on. After nearly a minute he lifts his head, sniffling as he rocks back, and I let my hand fall away. His head swivels until our eyes meet, and his are swollen and red. He shrugs a shoulder.

“My dad’s sick, Noah. He doesn’t know that I know. Neither does my mom. But I . . . I know he’s sick. He wasn’t on a golf trip. He was getting a second opinion on his options. I heard him and my mom talking about it over Thanksgiving. And when I heard you call and beg my dad to let you play Santa this year, I talked him into it. I knew he was putting off the second opinion until after the holidays because he didn’t want to leave Frankie hanging. And because he loves that fucking red suit, man.”

“Ant, I’m so?—”

He shakes his head and shifts his weight so he can reach over and hug me. I wrap my arms around him, and he lets out a heavy breath—probably worth the weight of the world—over my shoulder.

“Don’t say sorry. I gave you shit for tricking my sister into spending time with you, but really, I made it all happen. And when I found out he was coming home early, I figured it was probably because the news wasn’t great.”

I peel back but keep my hand on his shoulder. I don’t think he needs it there, but I do. I need to hold my friend.

“Does he know that you know?”

He sniffles and nods.

“I told them both I knew what was really going on the night I gave you that.” He gestures to my right eye.

I press my fingertips to my upper cheek and chuckle.

“What, this? It was nothing. Barely a flesh wound,” I joke, quoting the old Monty Pythons that his dad made us watch a few summers ago. It makes Anthony laugh, which was the point.

“Do you really love her?” His head tilts, and his eyes hold mine, the rage no longer there, but I doubt the worry will ever leave them. And that’s okay.

I nod.

“Yeah, man. I really do. And I’m so goddamn afraid to tell her.” I laugh nervously. It’s so weird to admit this in front of him after everything.

His lip tugs up on one side, and he shakes his head.

“Nah, don’t be afraid of that. That’s the one thing you don’t have to worry about, Noah. Frankie’s been practicing writing her name as Frankie Drake since junior high. She’s yours. Just promise me?—”

“I promise,” I cut in. He doesn’t have to finish his demand. Whatever it is, I promise.

Don’t hurt her.

Love her.

Put her first.

Support her.

Fight for her.

Keep her safe.

All of it. I promise.

“We good, man?” I hold out my hand, and my friend drops his gaze, shaking with a silent chuckle before clasping his hand with mine.

“Yeah, we’re good. For now. But we’re still both going to be captains. And I’m not planning on taking it easy on you.”

I smirk, standing, then helping him to his feet.

“Good. Neither am I.”