Page 89 of The Goalie in Room 1

“A Notre Dame hoodie,” he said.

“And a couple of T-shirts. You wear the same two fucking Notre Dame shirts all the time.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do. Turn it around.”

Still smiling, he pulled it free and flipped it over.

VALE stretched across the shoulders. His old number beneath it.

The smile changed.

His fingers moved over the lettering, slower this time, and something warm settled behind my ribs.

“I had to look that shit up,” I said.

Thad glanced at me. “Did you?”

“You weren’t exactly famous.”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“You made up for it. You’re a lot more famous now.”

“I found my calling,” he said, his voice barely a croak as he looked back at the hoodie, his thumb tracing his old number. The expression on his face made the stupid warm thing behind my ribs spread.

“You shouldn’t’ve.”

“It wasn’t expensive,” I said.

His eyes immediately came up.

Shit.

I pointed at the last package. “Open that one.”

“Cash.”

“Don’t.”

Something passed over his face before he nodded. He didn’t push. He just moved my leg again and went for the thin package beneath the tree.

The nerves hit as soon as I saw it in his hands.

The other stuff had been easy. Things I’d noticed. Things he’d use. Things that would make him laugh.

This one felt different.

Maybe because I’d gone looking for it.

Thad sat down and started peeling back the paper. I watched his hands instead of his face until they stopped moving.

Shit.

The framed photograph rested in his palms.

Notre Dame. His team at the Frozen Four.