Page 6 of Sweet Thing

“For a spell. Can’t miss the old man’s final season.”

“Less of the old, cheeky monkey. Okay, I’m going to get you a drink because this is a celebration. My best girl’s home! What’s your tipple these days? Something exotic with lemongrass or lychee, I suppose.”

I chuckled. “A cider would be fine, whatever’s on tap. Oh, is Hatch here?”

My brother, Hatch, had been recently acquired to play on the Rebels, a move that pretty much determined my dad’s trajectory this year. One of his dreams was to play on the same team as his eldest son. If he could hold on for another year until my younger brother Conor made his debut, the Kershaws would be Gordie Howe-ing it to the max.

“Yeah, he’s here somewhere. Hey, man?” My father’s attention snagged on some poor unfortunate as they tried to walk by. “Keep my girl company, will ya?”

“Sure, T.”

My entire body went stiff. Dad was already halfway to the bar while his spot was filled with the bulk of one of his teammates.

Lars Nyquist.

He hadn’t changed. Scratch that. He had becomemorehandsome, which should have been impossible. A year should have dimmed those baby blues, grimmed that sensuous mouth, trimmed all that beauty. Justice was clearly on a smoke break.

The less said about the last time I saw him, the better. Thankfully, my crush had waned to barely negligible. These days, I was a new woman, well-traveled and unhindered by teenage hormones.

But when faced with this absurdity—six-two, broad as an ox, all copper-tinged jaw scruff and blues the sparkle of Lake Michigan on a clear summer day—any girl might question her willpower.

“Good to see you,” he said, rubbing his beard. Rubbing it in, more like.

“You, too!” Far too enthusiastic, so I pitched my next words lower. “Congrats on the win tonight.”

“Yep. Your dad was on fire. Hard to believe he’s serious about retirement.”

I found it hard to fathom as well. He was the second oldest player in the league, and the oldest was currently on what seemed like permanent IR, so my dad was the oldest active player. When he became a father again four years ago, we all thought that would be the clincher. So long hockey.

Mom knew better. She understood that hockey meant the world to him, and once done, he might crash into the void left by its absence.

“Yeah. And you two make a good team.”

He nodded.

And that was that.

We lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Throwing a desperate glance over my shoulder, I willed my father to return, but when I turned back, Lars was looking at me like he had something to say. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to hear it. Leave it in the past.

So I glared at him, hoping that would discourage any trips down memory ditch, and prayed that he had the decency to forget all about it.

Lars

When I first landed onthe Rebels, I thought being partnered with a veteran like Kershaw would be weird. That that our post-game cellies would be muted by this ancient in our midst. That he might crampmystyle.

Fuck, was I wrong.

Theo Kershaw was Teammate with a capital T. The guy knew every bar and bartender in every city we played, and they all loved him, even when he was responsible for shutting out their team. He was player, coach, mentor, counselor, and priest, and once he retired, there would be a huge hole to fill, not just on the Rebels but in hockey.

Over the last year, he’d been there for me in more ways than one. After the initial dread of dinners at the Kershaws, I’d come to enjoy them. To see them as the highlight of my week. When my father died, Theo had been the rock I didn’t know I needed.

My growing closeness to the family was made easier by Adeline’s absence. That was probably a shitty thing to think, but I couldn’t have become a regular at the Kershaw table if I had to sit across from his daughter. Without her presence, I could listen dispassionately when Theo talked about her. How much he missed her. About the flea-ridden hostels she was staying in, the no-name airline she was flying, the salmonella magnets she was eating in. He would try sending her money to graduate her travel experience from one-star to three, but she would refuse because she wanted to make her own way.

I admired that. Growing up the daughter of a rich, famous pro-athlete might make a kid privileged. Not Adeline. Not any of the Kershaw kids. (Except for Tilly, who at age four, was entitled to a little privilege.)

Theo talked about Adeline so much that Ihad actually started looking forward to her return, if only so he would shut up about her. I’d seen the photo dumps before every practice, watched the reels he sent anyone who’d listen, and heard all about the adventures of Addy and Rosie, like it was the latest YA graphic novel.

In a way, I felt I knew her better than any of the fuckers here, save her dad. So it was disconcerting to find that she didn’t like me.

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