Page 1 of Holly Jolly Rebel

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 Iwasslowing down.

Most professional hockey players at the age of forty-mumble mumblewould 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?Thatguy 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 didyouget 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 fullcircle 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 whyyou’regoing 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.”

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