Page 1 of Rebel Bride
Prologue
June
Hatch
* * *
“Welcome aboard, Hatchling!”
I grinned at my dad, thankful that for once he hadn’t used his other nickname for me, Dino Boy. Better that people thought less about my conception origin story and more about the aggression I was bringing to the ice.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Eh, it’s ‘captain’ now.” My little brother Conor lifted his Diet Coke and brought the straw to his lips. “The guy’s not just dad, now he’s your freakin’ boss.”
“True, true.” Theo Kershaw—Dad, team captain of the Chicago Rebels, and one of the most legendary defensemen in hockey—nodded sagely before breaking out that smile he had gifted the entire family. That would be me, the eldest, my sister Adeline, twins Conor and Landon, and our baby sister Tilly.
I had recently signed a contract with the Chicago Rebels. While Dad and I had faced off against each other during my time as a power forward with Denver, it was his dream to play professionally on the same team as his son. To be honest, I had resisted efforts by the Rebels to bring me on board. It might be my hometown team, but Chicago was the last place I wanted to be. However, this would probably be the Theo Kershaw’s last year in the league, and who wouldn’t want to be part of that legacy?
My uncle Jason, a defenseman with the Boston Cougars, set another IPA before me.
“J, I haven’t even drunk the first one yet.”
“Call yourself a hockey player.” He pointed at Conor who was eying the three, now four, bottles lined up in front of me at the Empty Net bar in downtown Riverbrook. Located about thirty miles north of Chicago, this was the team’s and fans’ usual watering hole. “Don’t even think it, Connie.”
“Me? Why, I’ve never touched a drop in my life.”
That set Jason and me off. Dad was too busy chatting with his co-defenseman on the Rebels, Lars Nyquist, but would probably have found Conor’s profession of sobriety just as amusing. A few months shy of drinking age, the kid was a rising senior at the University of Michigan, my alma mater. I knew what college was like, and Conor was no saint. But he was also aware that our family had a certain rep to maintain. Underage drinking in the Net was liable to get him splashed over the pages of that tabloid rag, Hot Goss.
Instead he indulged in another vice by turning to the cute blonde at his elbow who had been making eyes with him all night. This gave Jason a chance to lean into me and murmur under his breath, “You okay?”
We’d had this conversation before. “Fine.”
“Yeah, but”—he lowered his voice even further—“I know this isn’t exactly what you wanted.”
Unfortunately, I’d shared that confidence with my uncle after a few too many of those IPAs a while back. I had a good reason for not wanting to join the Rebels, but I had set it aside because this was my dad’s dream. Time was running out and I couldn’t deny him.
“It’ll be fine. If anything, I just need to ignore the media who think I’m getting a spot on the team handed to me on a silver platter.” Never mind that I was drafted in the first round to Denver four years ago. Or that my stats the last couple of years with that same team had been as solid as they came. The sports media loved to scream “nepo baby” whenever my name came up. Playing with my dad would be a unique type of pressure cooker, but I could handle it.
As for the real reason this trade wasn’t my favorite thing, I would ignore it. I would have to.
“I better hit the head before I make a dent in these.” I pointed at the pretty row of IPAs. “Conor, hands off.”
My brother grinned and gestured with a nod to the girl beside him. “Got my hands full here, H.”
Yep, that kid was going to knock up some chick before he could legally drink.
My journey to the restrooms was like a wade through Chicago streets after a Winter blizzard as I was forced to stop every couple of seconds to accept backslaps and congratulations from fans and future teammates. Near the jukebox, Rebels forward Peyton Bell, aka Dingaling, shoved a shot of bourbon in my hand.
“Dude, you must be psyched to finally be on a good team! Drink up!”
So the Rebels had made it further than Denver in the playoffs this past season, but that level of shade was, well, shady. Such was the lot of a pro hockey player, though. Chirping was our love language.
I knocked back the shot and got whoops of approval from players Cody “Jakey” Jacobs and Noah “NoBo” Boden. I’d hung with these guys at holiday parties and cookouts, on visits to the practice rink and to locker rooms. They were my dad’s crew, and now they were mine. Together, we would make or break Theo Kershaw’s final season, and I would be on hand to bear witness. To be a part of history.
The bourbon was warming my stomach and softening my edges. This year would be fucking awesome.
“Kershaw Junior!” Dash Carter shoved Jakey aside and threw his arm around my shoulder. “You here to steal my spot?”
