Page 6 of Holly Jolly Rebel

My friend shrugged. “You’ve been kind of quiet since you came home from Vermont. Hatch said you might not even go back.”

“Hatch said?” My brother was such a gossip.

Rosie screwed up her mouth and pushed her dark, natural waves out over her shoulder. At roughly the same age as my older brother and nineteen months older than me, Rosie had always been the epitome of hip. She even had tattoos, though her dads were definitely not in the know on that score.

“Why did I have to find this out from Hatch, anyway? You should be telling us everything.” Rosie gestured at Esme who had finally gotten the vape pen to work and was now examining it like maybe it was worth trying anyway. For science.

Esme looked up. “What happened in Vermont?”

“Nothing. I-I just don’t think I’m cut out for college. I couldn’t make any friends and the place was jam-packed with mean girls. Which sounds like I think I’m better than everyone. I don’t think that. I’m just not a great joiner.”

Rosie regarded me with sympathy, borne of years listening to detailed deep dives on my well-crafted inferiority complex. “You have no problem talking to us.”

“Yeah, but think how long it took for me to get comfortable? Especially with you being so close to Hatch and all.”

People used to joke—still did—that Hatch and Rosie were senior Rebels royalty, an arranged marriage waiting to happen. Thankfully my brother and my friend never took that nonsense seriously because that would have been disastrous, especially if they broke up. I couldn’t even begin to think of takings sides.

Esme sucked on the vape pen and started coughing. Rosie took it from her and pocketed it before turning back to me.

“You did stay in that cubby under the stairs for longer than reasonable.”

“I was nine and a half and you were a big girl. All of eleven.”

“Terrifying,” Esme said, dryer than unbuttered toast. “Well, I can’t wait to go to college in the Fall, though Mom will probably rent a place nearby to keep an eye on me. The phrase helicopter parent was invented for her.”

Tara Fitzpatrick did like to hover, but she was a Rebels mom, which translated to “in your business all the time.” My parents were a bit more hands off but not by much.

Rosie grinned. “Speaking of which, we’d better put in an appearance, or they’ll start sending out the search parties.”

We turned to go in just as Cade Burnett, one of Rosie’s dads came out.

“There you are! You out here boozin’, RoRo?”

“Sure, Dad.” She winked at me.

“Saw that.” Cade crossed his arms. “Don’t let your dad catch you with that hip flask.” At Rosie’s gape, he added, “Can’t get anything by me, honey.”

That made both Esme and I laugh. Cade was a funny guy, so laid-back with his Texan drawl. He had retired this past Spring and was enjoying taking on a more stay-at-home interest in his family. On a hammy wink, he returned to the kitchen just as Rosie caught my eye.

“I’ll follow in a sec. Just want to clear my head some more.”

Rosie touched my arm. “It’s gonna be okay, y’know. We’ve got your back, no matter what happens.”

I watched them go, wishing it was easy as all that. That I knew where I belonged. My mom would say I was too young to worry about that, yet my brothers had no problem figuring out their place in the world. Hatch and Conor were destined for the big time in hockey and Landon would probably be an investment banker or a con artist. Same thing, Uncle Gunnar would say.

The strains of Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” filtered through into the cold night air. It was one of my favorites and I hummed along, letting myself indulgein a few of the familiar phrases, especially the ones about how next year, all our troubles would be miles away.

A minute later, the song was over and the cold was seeping deeper into my bones instead of clearing out the cobwebs of my brain as I’d hoped. I couldn’t put off the mingling any longer and was turning to go back in just as Lars Nyquist rounded a corner. The big-shouldered defenseman, son of a legendary Finnish player, had started with the Rebels this season. I’d met him once at a cookout in my Uncle Dex’s back yard.

Once was enough. The guy was the stuff of a schoolgirl’s horny dreams, but he was also kind of moody, which should have done nothing for me. Such was my thinking, ever self-contradictory.

Naturally I made it as awkward as possible.

“Where did you come from?”

Blinking, he ran a hand through his dark blonde hair, evidently unused to being questioned like he’d committed a crime.

“Around the corner.” He held up the phone as if swearing an oath in a court of law. “Taking a call.”

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