Sweet Thing
Prologue
Lars
The combination of grilled meats, perfect August blue skies, and Dua Lipa’s “Levitating” blasting from the sound system could mean only one thing: A summer cookout at the Kershaws was in full flow.
These kinds of get-togethers tested the limits of my sociability, so I usually stayed away. When you had addictive personality traits in your bloodline, it was best not to tempt them to make an appearance. As this thinking coincided with my general desire to not get too close to my Chicago Rebels teammates, it worked out for everyone.
But today, my excuses had fallen on deaf ears, and those ears belonged to my captain and partner on the defensive line. Theo Kershaw, the man, the legend, and the player who showed no signs of stopping, had insisted I attend.
Be there or suffer the wrath of my better half!
That would be his wife Elle, one of the nicest people on the planet. Even a curmudgeon like me had a hard time playing killjoy to her kindness.
“NyQuil!” Kershaw was known for his nickname game, so Nyquist became NyQuil without too much effort. His grill apron said, Your Opinion isn’t in the Recipe. “You made it.”
“Course I did.” Said as if it was a foregone conclusion. I held up a six-pack of Pulaski Pils from Maplewood Brewery. “Where should I put this?”
“There’s a cooler over here.” Kershaw took the cans from me and guided me into his world, as he so often did. “Ellie? Look who showed!”
Plenty of heads turned at this announcement, Rebels old and new, a couple of them with readymade smirks. The guys on my team were great, but even after a few years a certain coolness remained between us. The stink of my dad’s misdeeds still stuck to me like a particularly noxious glue.
“Lars!” A tall, dark-haired woman approached, her blue-gray eyes warming as she neared. Elle Kershaw always struck me as the family’s heart, the person who kept their boisterous brood grounded. More reserved than her husband, she had an understated sense of humor I reluctantly enjoyed.
She kissed my cheek. “How’s your summer been? We’ve hardly seen you.”
“No complaints.”
Her smile was sly. “Heard you were working with Reid’s hockey camp for a few weeks. That must have been fun.”
“Oui, c’est bon.” That was the extent of my French, but hockey was its own language, thankfully. Against all odds, I’d enjoyed volunteering with Reid Durand’s youth hockey group in Quebec. Some players liked to use their summers to chill, regroup, and tighten the bonds with family. Others liked to keep so busy their brains became too crowded to hold space for anything else. Guess which category I fell into.
“Well, I hope you’ll spend some time with current Rebels members this season, Lars.” She squeezed my arm to temper any perceived criticism, I supposed. “There’s always room at our table.”
“I appreciate that, though I imagine it’s been pretty full this summer.” During the season, Theo’s grandmother Aurora and his daughters Adeline and Tilly kept the female energy high before things evened out during the summer with the return of their boys. Their eldest son Hatch played pro hockey for Denver, and their twins, Conor and Landon, were rising seniors at the University of Michigan. Golden Retriever, Eggsbee—short for Eggs Benedict because Kershaw had a tradition of naming the family’s pets after breakfast items—completed the picture-perfect postcard.
“Yeah, it’s been great,” Kershaw said. “But once the boys are gone, I’ll be the only guy in the house.”
I scoffed. “Which you love, you attention-whore.”
“Sure, but it gets old after a while. I’ve had that adoration my entire life, man. Help me out and bring your manly burps to dinner.”
Before I could comment in a way that neither promised nor refused, something wet and sticky grasped my hand. Looking down, I found the youngest Kershaw, three-year-old Tilly. The spit of her dad with a dark, wavy mass of curls framing her face, she peered up at me with a mischievous calculation in her shamrock-green eyes.
“Hey, you.” At the grand old age of thirty-five, you’d think I’d have kids figured out. Tilly was your typical little girl, so naturally I worried about swearing in front of her or not paying her enough attention or making her cry with my resting prick face.
On establishing eye contact, the kid used the back of my hand to wipe her nose.
“Tilly!” Elle pulled her away. “Sorry about that. She’s not figured out the social niceties yet.”
Kershaw was laughing his head off. “Making her mark on Uncle Lars.”
Elle produced a tissue and wiped her daughter’s nose, then picked her up. Tilly went for another sticky swipe—my cheek this time—and missed.
“I want Duckman!”
Elle chuckled. “That’s right, Uncle Lars is Duckman. She loves that thing, her favorite gift of all time.”
Last Christmas, I gave Tilly a fluffy duck toy I’d picked up in the drug store around the corner before I answered another summons for a Kershaw holiday gathering. I’d forgotten until Elle connected the dots for me.
“Hey, Mom, I can take her.”
“Addy!” Kershaw pulled the new arrival, his eldest daughter, into a hug. “Don’t leave me.”
Standing on tip-toes, Adeline kissed her dad on the cheek. “I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”
Kershaw turned to me. “My beautiful girl is finally fleeing the nest.”
“After a couple of false starts,” she murmured, her cheeks filling with color.
I didn’t know Adeline all that well. While she had her dad’s green eyes and dark hair, she favored her mom with that stubborn chin and a reserve that bordered on shyness. With the birth of Tilly, a surprise for Elle who had thought her childbearing days were long behind her, Adeline left college in Vermont and stayed home to help out. She had returned to a local community college in the last couple of years and finished up an associate’s degree, and now she and her best friend, Rosie, were all set to embark on a bout of overseas travel.
Out of politeness, I asked, “Where’s your first stop?”
“Lisbon. Rosie’s already been, and she thinks it’s a good place to get our feet wet.”
“You’re going to have a great time.”
“Don’t say that!” Kershaw hugged his daughter tighter. “She might never come home.”
“How about this, Dad? I’ll come home when you announce your retirement.”
“I’ll announce it right now if it means you’re safe with us!”
“Sure, go ahead. I’ll wait.” She smiled, a real heavy hitter even prettier for its rarity. But there was challenge in there. This Kershaw knew exactly what she was doing.
Her dad caved immediately. “Gonna miss you, Twinkle. We all will.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Okay, Tilly, let’s find Ducky! And when we do, we’ll sing his song.”
Elle waved at Jordan, wife of former Rebel Levi Hunt, and excused herself. Kershaw watched his wife and daughters move away, his face luminous, his love for them so plain that I was embarrassed at witnessing such depth of feeling. I couldn’t imagine having time for that and still retaining my edge on the ice.
“Man, I worry about her,” he said after a moment, and I knew he wasn’t talking about his wife or youngest daughter.
“She seems like she has a good head on her shoulders.” At twenty-two, Adeline was definitely old enough to be flying the coop.
Kershaw frowned. “Yeah, she does. But she’s spent hardly any time away from home. She tried with college, but it wasn’t for her, and now I feel like she’s just doing this to prove something.”
“Isn’t that a kid’s job? Test the boundaries while they figure things out?”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it. It’s a daughter thing, which I know makes me a complete sexist. One day you’ll understand.”
“A good soldier never disagrees with his captain.” I neglected to add that I would never know the feeling because I would never have kids.
He grinned. “Dick. Okay, let’s get you a drink and a burger. I left O’Malley on the grill, so God only knows what a mess he’s made of it.”
Dex O’Malley was another Rebels legend, a power forward who exuded all the maturity of a baby bunny rabbit yet had somehow managed to score an amazing wife, three gorgeous daughters, and a dream life. Equally shocking, as assistant captain, he was in the running for the full gig once Kershaw decided to hang up his skates.
I had no idea how the cap did it, especially when he had so much else to occupy him: family, charity work, mentoring, various business ventures. I admired the fuck out of him, though I wouldn’t want his life.
Or maybe I thought a life like that would never want me.
* * *
I put in a couple of hours of mingling, ate two burgers and a “Moroccan lamb slider,” courtesy of Jude, Hudson Grey’s husband, and enjoyed a monosyllabic chat with Bren St. James, another retired Rebel who hated these gatherings as much as I did. I was contemplating my exit when I was accosted by Aurora Kershaw on my way into the house to use the facilities.
Theo’s grandmother was a bit of a legend herself. Having raised him single-handedly, she was his biggest influence. After beating breast cancer about ten years back, she moved from Saugatuck, Michigan to Riverbrook, Illinois, twenty miles outside Chicago and home of the Rebels hockey franchise, to live with her grandson and his growing family. She was also the leader of Theo’s Tarts, the fan club for women of a certain age, which she’d formed to cheer on the captain during his home games. They even had homemade jackets.
“Lars Nyquist! Come here and let me get a look at you.”
Petite, with a gray bob and sharp blue eyes, she grasped my arms. Though she barely came up to my pecs, she managed to land a lipstick-stained smooch on my neck. (I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there.)
“Oh, that beard burn must drive the ladies wild!”
Self-consciously, I rubbed my facial hair and mentally shuddered at the notion of Aurora commenting on its effects on the female population.
“I’ve only got eyes for you, Aurora.”
“See? You can charm them when you choose. And I’m not the only woman that Scandi noir vibe of yours works on. Why, I’ve seen the greedy gazes following you around at this party, even from some of the WAGs.”
“I don’t mess with married women.” That came out a bit abrupt, but her words sent me hurtling back to one night a couple of months ago in the Empty Net, the team’s regular watering hole. Another woman who had enjoyed my beard and had taken me unawares.
“Of course you don’t! Now, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about my grandson. You’re younger—”
“Not by much.”
“Eight years! So I need you to look out for him on that ice. He’ll never admit it, but he’s not as tough as he used to be. You’ll protect him, won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best, Aurora. But to be fair, he’s about as tough as they come. No one’s getting by Superglutes.”
She smiled at my use of Kershaw’s nickname. “I can’t think of anyone I’d want partnering my boy in these final years. He won big when the Rebels landed you, Lars Nyquist.”
No, I was the winner. Though I resisted with all my Scandi noir vibes, the Kershaws made me feel like I belonged. I’d happily spend every minute protecting Theo on that ice and his family off it.
“Oh, there’s Harper.” She waved at the team’s CEO, the Rebel queen herself, who had just arrived with her husband, Remy. I gave a quick salute which the vivacious and still shapely blonde acknowledged with a raised eyebrow. “I need to talk to her about what else she’s doing to keep my Theo safe.”
Off she went, leaving me to marvel at all us minor planets orbiting Theo Kershaw, the sun in this close-knit universe. I moved through the house, taking in every signifier of its absolute fitness for purpose: keeping the Kershaws safe and demonstrating their familial perfection. Every turn revealed another sign of a life well lived. The marks on the door showing the children as they grew from Hatch to Tilly, the kids’ art on the walls, the family photos on the landing. This cathedral was a testament to the Kershaws’ abiding love for each other, and I couldn’t help a smile as I hit that creak on the stairs then another squeak of the floorboards on the landing as I headed to the bathroom.
Something pulled me up short. I was pretty sure I’d heard my name.
“You’re not going to see him for at least a year,” a female voice was saying from behind a slightly ajar door. “Maybe longer. By the time you come back, he might be hooked up with some bunny.”
Someone else scoffed. “Sure, and what am I supposed to do about it? Oh, Lars, haven’t you heard? I think you’re the sexiest guy alive. Could I have a kiss to keep me warm on the lonely nights while I travel the world?”
I froze. That was Adeline.
“Why not?” The other voice countered. I recognized it now as belonging to Rosie, daughter of Cade Burnett, a former Rebels defenseman and ex-GM, Dante Moretti. “If he bites, you get some. If he doesn’t, you move on and …” She trailed off.
Adeline groaned. “I know, I know. I need to move on.”
“Yeah, you do. But maybe he’ll go for it?” Her reply was gentle, not wholly convinced.
He won’t go for it. Do not even try it. Don’t put either of us in that position.
I needed to leave. That way I wouldn’t have to turn anyone down, not that Adeline would truly make a move on me. That was absurd.
About as absurd as what you just heard.
Pro hockey players were known for their lightning-fast reflexes, but today this one’s were way off. To my shame, the door flew open before I could get a step off.
“Conor, aren’t you a little old to be listening at—?” Adeline gasped.
Shit.
“Oh, sorry, I—” She hesitated, blinking dark, inky lashes, picture frames for those somber green eyes. “I thought you were my brother.”
“Nope. Not your brother. Just …” The guy you think is the sexiest alive. I thumbed over my shoulder at the bathroom by way of explanation.
“Right.” Her face was flushed, which I would normally think was pretty, but right now, no. It meant she was embarrassed, and that I was the dick who caused it.
Rosie appeared behind her. “Hi, Lars.”
“Rosie.” She was a little older than Adeline, maybe by a couple of years. With her colorful ink and dark eyes, she had always struck me as mature beyond her years, unlike Adeline, who had a wide-eyed innocence to her. Or maybe I had labeled her that way because of who she was. Theo Kershaw’s adored daughter.
Rosie moved past Adeline, sending her friend a meaningful look.
“I need to talk to Hatch about that thing.”
“What thi—?” The words died on Adeline’s lips as fast as Rosie took the stairs behind me.
A reluctant Adeline turned back to me. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.”
She dragged her teeth along a plump lower lip and placed a hand on the doorframe. For a moment, I worried she might faint. Behind her I got a sense of a young girl’s bedroom: posters of people I didn’t recognize, kooky art I wouldn’t understand, a computer desk, a guitar leaning against a wall.
“It’s not a big deal.” The words emerged from my throat rusty and a little too fast.
“I just talked about my years-long crush on you and it’s not a big deal?”
I winced. This got worse and worse.
She realized her error instantly. “Maybe you should tell me which of my shocking revelations you did hear.”
I admired her for turning it on its head. If she was going to be embarrassed, she may as well drag me down with her.
“Something about you thinking I was, uh, sexy.” I couldn’t believe I had just uttered that word to Adeline Kershaw. Forgive me, captain, for I have sinned. “Like I said, not a big deal.”
“Because you hear it all the time.”
That made me chuckle, the first funny thing I’d heard since I’d stood outside a bedroom door and listened to a couple of young women discussing private things I had no right to hear.
“Nah, I don’t hear it all the time. I’m not exactly a fan favorite.”
“People can separate fandom from lust.” She closed her eyes, and those sooty lashes fluttered against her cheeks. “I’m not making this any better, am I?”
“Can’t say you are. But if it’s any consolation, I’m just as embarrassed as you are.”
“None whatsoever,” she said glumly.
I wanted to chuckle again, but she wouldn’t appreciate it. Had I suspected this crush? Perhaps. Perhaps that was part of the reason I rejected all those dinner invites.
I tried to look at the upside. In a couple of days, she would be on her way, out of the country, far from this moment. New adventures would replace old hurts, and neither of us would think on this awkwardness any longer. Just a schoolgirl crush on an older man. Harmless, really.
Time to wrap this up. “Are we good, Adeline?”
She frowned, like the question was unexpected. I wanted to leave this on good terms. Didn’t she?
“Yeah, we’re good, Lars.”
An urge to kiss her on the cheek took hold of me, a consolation prize for the loss of, well, me. I chased away that nonsense and nodded curtly instead.
“Good luck on your travels. Stay safe.”
“Thanks. And sorry.”
I waved it off as I bolted for the stairs with the slowest, most methodical step of my life. “Think nothing of it.”