“Our game is better!” my cousins yell from the sidelines, where they’re dancing to the holiday music that blares from the sound system in the community ice rink. “We have cocktails!”
“If Fletcher Sullivan is your cousin, how come you’re not a better player?” my uncles demand as Hudson loses the puck to the Finn.
Heikkiläinen just casually lifts the puck and flicks it toward Ren in net. In the net, Ren doesn’t stop crushing a can of beer, just holds up his glove and snatches the puck out of midair.
Zayne skates by and casually tosses a pass toward me. Fletcher, naturally, is gunning for it, but I cut in front of him and snag it.
“Rude,” he huffs, grinning. “I thought you loved me.”
“I do. That’s why I’m not going easy on you.”
One of my sisters is actively trying to climb onto Carlsson’s shoulders from the back while my aunts keep catcalling Zayne Murphy and asking if he wants to let Mommy kiss Santa Claus.
“I am so sorry,” I tell him as I pass him, heading to the net.
“Hey, I have to go to work tomorrow,” my uncle complains as Fletcher shoves him out of the way to try to snipe the puck from me.
“It was bad enough with Ryder O’Connell, but all of you? This is unfair.” Another uncle breathes hard as he tries to chase down the puck.
Ryder snipes the puck from me. As I curse him, he’s off to the net, dodging around guys until he sends the puck spinning toward Ren. Ren knocks it away with his stick and throws his empty beer can at Ryder.
“Damn, you’re hard to shoot on,” Ryder says cheerfully as he turns sharply around the back of the net.
A shriek sounds from across the ice as Granny Murray wobbles out of the warming hut holding a tray of shot glasses and a bottle of peppermint schnapps. “If you’re playing, you’re drinking!” she hollers.
“Granny, no,” I protest, but she’s already pouring.
“Shots or penalties!” she bellows.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m lining up for a face-off, tipsy and warm in my puffy jacket and favorite pink toque. The ice is full of players, family, and chaos.
“Now it’s fair!” My uncle says as the bottle is passed around for another round for the NHL players, minus Zayne.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m pretty sure they can still play drunk.”
“Hey, boys!” My dad yells at my brothers. “No! You are underage! Trina, get your mom—she’s getting the boys drunk.”
Ryder grabs the bottle away from Adam and Jace.
“They need some hair on their chests! I saw them balk at a fight at the game the other night.” Granny Murray boos. “Don’t back down from a fight. Bringing shame to the fam like that. Your sister cussed out that ref yesterday.”
“Maybe she needs to back down,” Fletcher mutters. “You almost got thrown out of the game, Ellie.”
“The ref’s biased,” I say with an eye roll.
Fletcher accelerates and lays a hit on his cousin. Hudson goes flying then pops up and jumps Fletcher.
“That’s my player!” I squawk.
“Gracie, come get your man,” Harlowe yells.
“Little fucker.” Hudson punches Fletcher. “I have an actual job I have to go to tomorrow,” he growls.
“Damn, I need to make sure I stay far away from you.” Ryder whistles as Fletcher shakes himself off, glaring at Hudson.
Adam skates around. “He came out of nowhere,” he says, nodding toward Fletcher. “Didn’t even play juniors.”
“Yeah,” my other brother says, skating behind Ryder. “I heard he was in the Marines. That’s gotta be it. Hockey’s a mental sport.”
