Chapter 37
ELLIE
“Ican’t believe you guys still have energy to play,” my dad complains as the handful of Rhode Islanders players who couldn’t make a trip home for Christmas zoom around the ice. “You played an NHL game last night and had practice this morning.”
“I always have energy for hockey!” Fletcher fights with my brother Adam for the puck.
“Our game is better!” my cousins yell from the sidelines, where they’re dancing to the holiday music that blares from the sound system in the community ice rink. “We have cocktails!”
“If Fletcher Sullivan is your cousin, how come you’re not a better player?” my uncles demand as Hudson loses the puck to the Finn.
Heikkil?inen just casually lifts the puck and flicks it toward Ren in net. In the net, Ren doesn’t stop crushing a can of beer, just holds up his glove and snatches the puck out of midair.
Zayne skates by and casually tosses a pass toward me. Fletcher, naturally, is gunning for it, but I cut in front of him and snag it.
“Rude,” he huffs, grinning. “I thought you loved me.”
“I do. That’s why I’m not going easy on you.”
One of my sisters is actively trying to climb onto Carlsson’s shoulders from the back while my aunts keep catcalling Zayne Murphy and asking if he wants to let Mommy kiss Santa Claus.
“I am so sorry,” I tell him as I pass him, heading to the net.
“Hey, I have to go to work tomorrow,” my uncle complains as Fletcher shoves him out of the way to try to snipe the puck from me.
“It was bad enough with Ryder O’Connell, but all of you? This is unfair.” Another uncle breathes hard as he tries to chase down the puck.
Ryder snipes the puck from me. As I curse him, he’s off to the net, dodging around guys until he sends the puck spinning toward Ren. Ren knocks it away with his stick and throws his empty beer can at Ryder.
“Damn, you’re hard to shoot on,” Ryder says cheerfully as he turns sharply around the back of the net.
A shriek sounds from across the ice as Granny Murray wobbles out of the warming hut holding a tray of shot glasses and a bottle of peppermint schnapps. “If you’re playing, you’re drinking!” she hollers.
“Granny, no,” I protest, but she’s already pouring.
“Shots or penalties!” she bellows.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m lining up for a face-off, tipsy and warm in my puffy jacket and favorite pink toque. The ice is full of players, family, and chaos.
“Now it’s fair!” My uncle says as the bottle is passed around for another round for the NHL players, minus Zayne.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m pretty sure they can still play drunk.”
“Hey, boys!” My dad yells at my brothers. “No! You are underage! Trina, get your mom—she’s getting the boys drunk.”
Ryder grabs the bottle away from Adam and Jace.
“They need some hair on their chests! I saw them balk at a fight at the game the other night.” Granny Murray boos. “Don’t back down from a fight. Bringing shame to the fam like that. Your sister cussed out that ref yesterday.”
“Maybe she needs to back down,” Fletcher mutters. “You almost got thrown out of the game, Ellie.”
“The ref’s biased,” I say with an eye roll.
Fletcher accelerates and lays a hit on his cousin. Hudson goes flying then pops up and jumps Fletcher.
“That’s my player!” I squawk.
“Gracie, come get your man,” Harlowe yells.
“Little fucker.” Hudson punches Fletcher. “I have an actual job I have to go to tomorrow,” he growls.
“Damn, I need to make sure I stay far away from you.” Ryder whistles as Fletcher shakes himself off, glaring at Hudson.
Adam skates around. “He came out of nowhere,” he says, nodding toward Fletcher. “Didn’t even play juniors.”
“Yeah,” my other brother says, skating behind Ryder. “I heard he was in the Marines. That’s gotta be it. Hockey’s a mental sport.”
“Everything’s mental if you’re not in shape,” Uncle Bic gasps from the bench, where his wife fans him and tries to get him to drink water.
Just to be a dick, Fletcher does a stutter step as he comes at Hudson, sending him tripping over his own stick. The puck zips past, and Fletcher barrels toward the net, glancing over his shoulder with a wink.
Hudson curses Fletcher as he races to goal then fires a shot on my dad. My dad braces himself in goal. Fletcher fakes left, fakes right, then fires—and absolutely roofs it over my dad’s shoulder.
“Goddamn it,” my father mutters as the puck hits the back of the net.
Fletcher skates back, triumphant and grinning, slapping hands with the Finn and my cousins as they whoop and holler.
“Not bad for a guy who got here on a forged stat sheet,” I say, smirking.
Fletcher loops around, snow spraying up as he stops short beside me. “What can I say? I play better when I’m trying to impress my girlfriend’s family.”
“Is this traditional in your country? A Christmas barbecue?” the Finn asks, genuinely concerned as he watches one of my uncles try to light a pile of wood with a homemade holiday candle an aunt gave away as a stocking stuffer and the confidence of a man who’s definitely been hitting the spiked punch hard.
“Oh, this isn’t a barbecue,” I tell him, grinning. “You’ll have to come back for the Fourth of July.”
“Yeah,” Harlowe adds, already halfway through a spiked hot chocolate. “Fireworks, red meat, and a good ol’ game of ‘find uncle Art’s fingers.’”
The Finn blinks, horrified. He points at the huge metal pot balanced precariously over a propane burner. “But… you are cooking something.”
“That?” I shrug. “We’re just deep-frying a turkey. Thanksgiving extras. They were on sale.”
The Finn actually gags. I’m not even sure if it’s exaggerated for effect.
I help one of my cousins dig two rock-solid turkeys out of the snowbank beside the garage. “Don’t make that face, Ren,” I say as I pass one to him. “I know you deep-fry turkeys in Mississippi.”
“Yeah, but we thaw ’em first,” he mutters. “And we sure as hell don’t bury ’em.”
“It’s fine,” I insist. “The snow keeps them cold. Nature’s freezer.”
“It’s not right,” the Finn mutters.
“You literally bury your food outside in Finland.” Fletcher smirks at Heikkil?inen.
“Not… an entire bird carcass,” the Finn replies flatly.
“Turkey! Turkey! Turkey!” my brothers chant, parading the birds toward the fire like a triumphant offering to the gods of poor decision-making.
Ren hurries over to where my uncles are poking at the fire under the bubbling oil with broom handles. “That oil ain’t hot enough!”
“Do you need a thermometer?” I offer.
“I’ll know it’s hot enough—I can feel it.” Ren passes his palm over the tops of the bubbling vats of oil then adds more wood to the fire until the flames lick the rim of the pots.
Then, without so much as a countdown, he drops a bird in.
For one single second, everything is silent.
And then—
FOOOOOOM!
A flaming tower of oil erupts into the air. Everyone screams and runs. It’s total chaos.
Fletcher and Hudson move in like they’re storming a bunker, grabbing fire extinguishers from the porch and grimly aiming them at the turkeys.
“Don’t ruin the food!” Ren rails, jumping in front of them while behind him, the last few leaves left on the dormant oak tree catch fire.
“Call the fire department! None of these damn NHL players have taken off their shirts. I want a man for Christmas!” Granny Murray shouts as Zayne grabs the hose and sprays the storage shed that is smoking.
“I thought you knew how to cook a turkey.” Fletcher scowls.
“Y’all were the ones who froze it!” Ren complains, shoving Fletcher away. “You always overreact. It ain’t that serious—just getting a little bit of char. That’s where the flavor is.” He kicks at one of the pots then scurries back, goalie reflexes the only thing saving his feet.
More flames shoot out. “Welp, there go our chances.” Harlowe hands me a fresh glass of eggnog that smells like it’s mostly rum.
Ren drops the other turkey into the bubbling oil, hollering obscenities as the oil spatters.
Fletcher waits, scowling, for the fireball.
I down my eggnog and hiccup. “Yum, deep-fried turkey.”
He looks down at me. “Is Christmas with your family always this…”
“Exciting?”
“Unhinged.” He leans down to kiss me.
“I love you,” I whisper against his mouth.
I feel him smile before he says, “No, I love you.” He drops the fire extinguisher so he can kiss me properly. “Do me a favor, though.”
“Yes, I can sneak you into my bedroom tonight. Granny Murray said she’ll leave the room free.”
“No, that wasn’t—well, obviously, I’ll be there, Candy Cane. But I need”—he murmurs against my mouth—“you to make sure that we make it to the Eastern conference finals, at least. I need that pay raise from Dana. I’m buying you a house.”
“We can host the holiday party there!” I clap my hands to his cheeks and kiss him drunkenly.
“No, that’s not what I meant…”
Granny Murray comes over and wraps an arm around Fletcher’s shoulders. “Little elf just told me you all need a roommate, and it sounds like I might be getting evicted. Gigi’s a real estate agent—she’ll hook you up. Imma be needing a separate in-law suite for me!” She heads off.
I grimace. “Merry Christmas?”
Fletcher leans down to kiss me, long and slow. “Sure, Candy Cane, move your crazy granny in. As long as I can sleep with you in an adult-sized bed.”