Holly Jolly Rebel (Rookie Rebels)

Chapter 1

One

Theo

“Hey, old man, you need a break?”

I tried not to lean on the rink gate in the Chicago Rebels practice facility while I hauled in some air. Yeah, I needed a break but I sure as hell wasn’t about to share that with this little shit. When I asked if he wanted to join me for a light early morning skate, I did not expect the trash talking. In fact, I’m pretty sure I forbade it.

Motor Mouth skated up, executed a nice brake—just like I’d taught him—and grabbed a water bottle from the bench.

“Hey, we can take a few minutes.” Nah, no condescension detected there. Hatch Wayne Butler Kershaw, aka my eldest son and heir, put the bottle to his lips and sucked a gallon down. Once done, he grinned, and damn, with those shamrock-green eyes and sharp cheekbones, it was like looking in the mirror. “It’s okay to admit you’re slowin’ down.”

“I admit nothing,” I muttered in one well-disguised gasp. Anything more would require extra drags of oxygen into my burning lungs and might reveal that maybe I was slowing down.

Most professional hockey players at the age of forty- mumble mumble would be seriously considering hanging up their skates. I’d won every award, held the Cup aloft four times, (dropped it once on camera, twice off it), and had what the media would call a “storied career,” the kind of language bandied about when people were tired of seeing your beautiful face. Every season start, as the rosters flashed across the screen during those early games, the inevitable comments from press and fans littered social media and polluted the air in sports bars across the nation.

Theo Kershaw? That guy is still playing?

Yes, I fucking was. They’d have to drag me off the ice in a body bag.

Which, right now, wasn’t so improbable.

I had one more game—at home, thankfully—before the league’s holiday break, three days of doing absolutely nothing except enjoying my kids and exchanging gifts and stuffing my face.

“You going to the holiday party tonight, Dad?” Making chit-chat to give me more time to recover, probably. He put his water bottle down and picked up his stick.

“Yes, I am. But since when did you get an invite?”

The Rebels holiday party was traditionally an adults-only affair back in the day, but that was before the Kid Explosion. Everyone started spawning and at one point it was something like eight point three kids to every hockey player. Then came the inevitable as the teens started “aging out”—read: staying home to raid the liquor cabinets—and it was rare to see anyone present between the ages of 15 and 25. Now it seemed to have come full circle with the youngsters thinking the holiday shindig and the parents who made it rock were cool again.

“Standing invitation from Harper,” Hatch said. “The woman loves me.”

That she did. But then the kid had the charm of his old man.

Before I could make a pithy observation on that, another player entered the rink. I had to blink my elderly eyes to verify I was seeing correctly.

“What the hell?”

My brother Jason skated over, grinning all the way. The kid (now knocking thirty) was a D-man with the Boston Cougars, having taken the instruction I gave him in his youth and harnessed it into an amazing career. I’d never been prouder than when he became a top-ten draft pick nine years ago.

“Still on IR, so I got to come home early.” He fist bumped, first with me, then his nephew. “Lenny didn’t want to let me in!”

Lenny was Rebels security, so of course he was going to be careful about the competition.

“Cool, Uncle J,” Hatch said. “You can hang with us at the Rebels party.”

“Yeah, I already got an invite from Lauren.” Lauren Yates was Gunnar Bond’s sister-in-law and one of Jason’s closest friends.

“Still not sure why you’re going to the party, junior,” I said to Hatch just as the light bulb went off so bright it almost blinded me. “Ya know, she’s too old for you.”

Hatch shrugged. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Bafflement creased Jason’s brow. Did I have to explain everything?

I turned back to my kid. “Funny story. When you were born, one week after Rosie Violet Burnett-Moretti?—”

“No need to say her whole name.” Hatch squinted. “She hates that.”

I ignored the interruption. “We all agreed that she was the girl for you, assuming you leaned that way.”

“Which I do.”

“So it’s kind of disappointing to see my heartfelt wish for the union of two great hockey dynasties go up in smoke because you have the hots for one of Remy’s girls instead.” Giselle was Hatch’s senior by at least seven years, I reckoned.

Jason laughed. “Ah, I see.”

Hatch sighed and pushed back the dark, wavy hair he had also inherited from me. (My gran Aurora insisted those waves looked even better on him, which was ridiculous.)

“First, no one says they have the hots for anyone anymore. That’s completely ick. Second, Rosie and I are just friends. Always have been and that’s not going to change. We kissed once in a closet at Esme’s twelfth birthday party and it was like kissing my sister. Gross.”

“I’m sure your sister feels the same way.”

Hatch made a face. “The point being, Rosie is not in the frame. And even if Giselle was the focus of my attention—which she’s not—then that would be an even better union of hockey dynasties because a Kershaw-Dupre combination would be a hundred times more media-savvy than a Kershaw-Burnett-Moretti combination. I mean, come on.”

That made no sense, and I wasted no time telling him.

“Rosie has two legendary hockey player dads. Giselle has one. That’s basic hockey dynasty math.”

My son frowned and shared a glance with his uncle. “You want to tell him or should I?”

“He knows. He’s just being contrary.”

Hatch leaned on his stick. “So Giselle’s mom doesn’t enter the equation? Harper Chase, daughter of Clifford Chase, first female CEO to lead a Cup-winning team, sister of an Olympic gold medal-winning?—”

“Okay, so the genetics might be in your favor.” Hatch had my propensity to argue a point to death. “And clearly you’ve thought hard about it, so as not to disappoint me with some regular civilian chick.”

That made my son laugh. “Dad, I’ve just turned twenty and I have no intention of uniting the great Kershaw dynasty with anyone, daughter of hockey legends or otherwise. At least not for a long time. I’m just heading to the holiday party to catch up with people, that’s all.”

“Okay. I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. And on the subject of holidays, what did you get for your mom?”

“Not telling. You’ll have to steal someone else’s ideas this year.”

“What about you?” I asked my brother. “All your gifts in the bag?” Maybe give me a hint for what I should get Old Nick.

“I’ll be spending the next forty-eight hours at the mall.”

“I won’t bother getting you a comp for the game tomorrow, then.”

“Already got a seat in the box, T. Wouldn’t miss it.”

Hatch skated backwards and nudged a puck in my direction. “Any life left in you, old man?”

Jason tapped his stick on the ice. “Yeah, how about a little two on one?”

These assholes.

Rather than shove that puck down my kid’s throat—'twas the season for goodwill towards men even when they were acting like brats—I instead showed him and my little brother that there was indeed life in the old dog yet.