Rebel Season (Hockey Boys of Loft 3B #3)

Chapter 1

FISHER

Fidgeting in my seat, I struggle to pay attention to what my father is saying to me as he drones on and on about yet another thing I’ve apparently done wrong.

My granddad, who’s older than dirt, is slumped in his chair, glaring at me.

In his defense, I believe his face is permanently frozen that way from the wrinkles that formed from being a gigantic asshole for the last ninety years.

Not even the ADHD medication I swallowed before meeting my father for breakfast is helping me focus. I’ve heard this same lecture a million times.

Cheerful French music plays around us in the Michelin star restaurant.

Music usually helps me drown out other background noise so I can concentrate a little better, but right now, my brain has chosen to fixate on the French lyrics in the song that I don’t understand instead of absorbing any of my father’s words.

There’s a pause in his speech, then a heavy sigh. It’s a sigh I’m all too familiar with, the weighted sound of disappointment. The sound of my childhood. “Archibald, are you listening?” he asks, arching one pale eyebrow.

Only my family calls me by my first name—thank the Lord for that—so I have to make a concentrated effort not to flinch at the unfamiliar sound of my first name as my eyes meet my father’s.

It’s always strange to see myself in him, only thirty years in the future.

The golden blond hair turning to ash at the temples, the aristocratic nose straight and defined while the skin around it crinkles, but in a distinguished way.

Louis Fisher the Fourth is still a handsome man at fifty-five, his fast paced life and constant working hours haven’t appeared to affect him at all.

He better say his prayers so that his face doesn’t freeze the way Granddad’s did.

“Of course I was listening,” I finally answer.

He pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, as if biting back harsh words. “What was the last thing I said?”

Oh no, I’ve played this game with him before. And I always lose. I drag a hand through my hair. “Okay, I might’ve missed some of what you said,” I admit.

Another stuffy sigh as my father slides his phone toward me. A photo of myself sandwiched between two blondes as we drunkenly laugh outside of a club downtown lights up the screen. I screw my nose up in confusion as I look at the picture—this is what that whole lecture was about?

“Archibald, you’re a grown man now. You’re not in college anymore,” Father starts, picking up his water glass and taking a drink.

“You’re aware that our last name comes with expectations.

These photos affect our brand; they hinder a reputation we’ve built over hundreds of years.

Do you understand what I’m saying?” His tone holds a condescending edge that I only notice because I’m attuned to all of his various edges.

I’m aware I’ve always been a disappointment to the Fisher family; not that any of them would come straight out and say that.

But the sentiment is always there. Every time my father addresses me, I see it resting just beneath the surface of his carefully controlled, regal demeanor.

I wish he’d acknowledge that, right now, I’m thriving.

I'm a professional athlete who got drafted out of college to play in the National Hockey League for the San Francisco Lions. Not bad for a son who was never expected to amount to anything. But instead of being pleased with me for once, he’s hinting at me ruining the family name over some photos? Ridiculous.

Granddad nods his wobbly head in silent agreement with my father. Sir, if you can’t nod without wobbling, it does not have the effect you want it to.

“It’s only a few photos,” I say as I study my father’s face, trying to work out what his angle is. I’ve done worse in the past to humiliate him than simply be snapped laughing in a photograph, so there must be more to whatever this is.

He rests an elbow on the table, leaning into his hand as he massages his temples. “We’re opening a branch of Fisher Group here in San Francisco.”

My eyes widen. I didn’t have a clue my family’s Atlanta-based property empire was expanding to the West Coast, let alone opening offices in the same city I now live in.

“We need permits from the city to begin work on our first development project here, and unfortunately, the mayor brings up your…activities…every time I meet with him.” He takes a deep breath. “He’s basing his opinion of the Fisher Group on your behavior.”

I close my eyes and remind myself to speak calmly and not allow my mouth to move before my brain catches up.

“I don’t work for Fisher Group, so it seems ridiculous that he's judging the company based on photos where I’m not doing anything illegal.

I’m not being destructive, I’m not peddling drugs, so I don’t understand what the big deal is.

I’m a pro athlete, and I’m always going to receive media attention—both positive and negative. ”

My father shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowing in a frustrated scrunch.

“Every Fisher has had to deal with media attention. You’re not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last. But whereas your brother shaped up and matured after college, it seems to be taking a bit more time for you…

” He leans forward, steepling his hands on the crisp white tablecloth.

“Perhaps this is my fault for being too easy on you. I was understanding when you weren’t accepted into Vanderbilt—the first Fisher son in three generations not to attend. ”

I swallow back an irritated response, trying not to roll my eyes. The man staring me down doesn’t even know the meaning of the word understanding. I’ve felt the gut-wrenching twist of never meeting his expectations for the last twenty-three years of my life.

Father levels me with a serious look, then continues.

“I didn’t expect you to go for your masters degree, since school is difficult for you.

” He’s clearly irritated…like I’m just an annoying bump in the road he travels toward success.

But still, he keeps that eerily calm demeanor with his shoulders back and his head held high.

“You’re sinking the Fisher Group name, boy,” Granddad cuts in, using all his strength to point a judgmental finger at me.

Father shoots Granddad a worried glance before turning back to me.

“Even though you aren’t actively working at our company, you own stock in Fisher Group and you represent the family name.

I’m simply encouraging you to start caring about your reputation and how it affects all of us.

It’s time to clean up your image…” He pauses for effect.

“I hate to do this, but if you can’t comply, I’ll have no choice but to suspend your trust fund. ”

I school my features, not wanting him to know how my stomach just dipped at the threat, but I can’t help but glance down at my Cartier watch and the keys to my G Wagon resting on the table beside my water glass.

My NHL salary is good. Most guys feel rich when they get that first paycheck.

And I’m grateful for it, don’t get me wrong.

But living on that income without my generous trust fund topping it up would require some changes to my lifestyle.

My roommate’s girlfriend loves shopping at thrift stores; maybe she could teach me.

Glancing at Granddad, my heart stabilizes…unlike his. “I could easily live on my NHL salary until I receive my inheritance.” I keep my voice low. Granddad can only hear if we’re practically shouting.

Father’s nostrils flare, the first true sign of the anger he’s holding back. My mouth curves up in a smirk. I bet he didn’t see that coming.

“Your granddad is the patriarch of our family, and I expect you to be respectful,” Father says, barely above a whisper.

He’s probably right. But the old man has dished out way worse countless times.

Still, for whatever reason, my father is emotionally attached to the horrible old man who raised him.

But not me; when Granddad finally dies, I’ll be relieved…

like I can finally breathe—actually, I think everyone in the family will feel the same way, but I’ll be the only one honest enough to admit it.

Movement in my periphery has me turning my head, and I find my older brother striding toward us, his perfectly pressed dress shirt tucked neatly into black slacks.

He’s wearing sunglasses, looking like the blond version of a Kennedy.

Louis Fisher the Fifth is everything my father wanted in a son, everything he hoped would be repeated with me.

The son who went to Vanderbilt, who graduated early then went to grad school for his MBA.

The son who has a second-nature instinct for real estate and investing and numbers.

The son who doesn’t need medication to focus on menial tasks.

Louis smiles and pulls out a seat at the square table we’re seated at by the window overlooking the San Francisco Bay. “Hey, baby brother,” he says. “Sorry I’m late, I had a meeting.”

I smile back, holding his gaze so my eyes won’t roll to the back of my head. “Hey, good to see you. How’s your better half?”

Louis chuckles and my father smiles affectionately at the mention of his beloved daughter-in-law—Natalie Astor, New York society queen, philanthropist extraordinaire…and as of a year ago, my brother’s wife.

Another perfect spouse for a Fisher grandchild that Granddad wholeheartedly approved of.

“Nat is great. She’ll be at the gala tomorrow night,” Louis answers just as the waiter comes and takes his order.

My eyes flit to my father, silently inquiring what gala my brother is speaking of.

Father’s tongue runs along his front teeth, and he takes a swig of his water.

When the waiter leaves, I keep my eyes on our father. “What gala?”