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Chapter Twenty-Four

Adeline

The Kershaw Halloween party was a must on the Rebels’ social calendar.

Most of the players, staff, and anyone vaguely associated with the org showed up, vying to outdo each other in the costume stakes.

Tonight, all the toddlers and infants were gathered like a petting zoo of adorableness.

We had a baby goat, two little pigs, a fox, and of course, our Mabel, now christened Moo-Belle, in her cow costume.

My mom had put them in a playpen at the center of the living room and instructed the tweens to keep an eye on them, which gave their parents—and temporary nannies—a bit of a break.

I adjusted my antenna headband and took a seat beside Summer, who was wearing a Disney princess dress, a la Beauty and the Beast, though this one had weird detailing in the seams. Like brown and green rosettes.

“What did you come as?”

Summer patted her blonde wig and grinned. “Taco-Belle.”

I looked closer. Those rosettes were minced beef and cilantro-colored pops of fabric.

“Awesome.”

“And you’re Zom-Bee? Love it!”

And I loved not having to explain my costume, a combo of a bee and the undead.

Lars had spent an age on my zombie makeup, lovingly applying it with a care that told me he’d missed his calling.

Enjoying the domestic comfort of creating costumes and getting ready together as a family were so enjoyable that I hated myself for even going there.

But I was also determined to grasp these moments of joy and go with where the flow took me.

“And Lars looks so handsome as a Viking—uh, hockey player?”

“Fantasy Hockey League.” A hockey jersey with a horned helmet and Thor wig was simple but effective. “He objected to every idea until I said he could wear his sweater.”

“Well, it works.” She leaned in close. “And how’s the other thing?”

I played coy. “What’s that?”

“I heard you went on a date with Rowan MacFarlane and Lars pulled a John Wick and punched him while he had the baby strapped to his chest like a weapons holster. I would have paid to see that.”

The embellishments were getting fancier. “Not how it happened. He came to pick me up—with the baby—and I watched her in the car while he went back in to, uh, hit Rowan.”

That sounded worse. I should probably apologize to the poor guy, but he got his wish: a spot on the line with my dad for the next few games.

Summer’s brow wrinkled. “You two are still boss/nanny? No funny business?”

“Yep!” Was that a slight twang I heard in her voice when she said “funny business”? I didn’t know much about Summer’s origins, and I itched to learn more. “So what did you do to my brother?”

Summer blinked, wide and slow, just like a Disney princess. “Hatch? Nothing.”

“I’ve noticed that he’s kind of off with you.”

“I know!” She sounded amused rather than upset. “Anytime he comes into the front office, he’s very ‘just the facts, ma’am.’ I think maybe I called him Hal the first couple of times I saw him? He’s been snippy to me ever since.”

I didn’t buy it. My brother wasn’t the grudge-holding type. I resolved to interrogate him later.

I let my eyes scan the room and rest longingly on Lars for a hot second. Enough to catch his eye, for both of us to recognize the danger, and reluctantly move on. To cover, I waved at Aurora, who had come as a 1920s flapper and was indeed showing decidedly too much leg.

Rosie in the guise of a lady pirate had been chatting with her brother Devon, a rubber chicken. She spotted my wandering gaze, so I jumped in with a question before she could. “How’s the job hunt going?”

She rolled the eye not covered by a fetching patch. “I talked to Harper, but we both agreed the Rebels front office is not for me.”

I’d thought as much.

“But! Jude got me an interview at the tattoo parlor where he gets his ink done.” Jude Torres was a Chicago firefighter married to Hudson Grey, one of the retired Rebels players.

Summer smiled. “That sounds like it would suit you!”

“Just reception work, for now.” She waved at someone who had just come in. “Hey, sis!”

Franky St. James was Rosie’s stepsister and a lecturer at Lakeshore University. Pushing her glasses back up her nose, she grinned at my friend. “You never call, you never write.”

Rosie hugged her, while doing her best not to crush the cardboard box around her waist. “That’s what social media is for! We kept up with everyone there.”

“Sure, and Vi would like a word.”

Rosie stood back and looked her sister over. “What did you come as?”

From what I could tell, she was a cat, but the makeup on one side of her face was gray green. A cardboard box around her waist was covered in Sharpied question marks.

“Schrodinger’s Cat.”

At my baffled look, she explained, “I’m half alive and half dead to represent the cat’s existence in a superposition of both states simultaneously.” Adjusting her cardboard box, she took a seat beside me. “I heard Lars Nyquist is now a father. How did that happen?”

“The usual way,” I said. “But he’s figuring it out.”

“With your help,” Summer said to me. “Don’t forget he couldn’t do it without you.”

“So did the condom break?” We all stared at Franky, who blinked owl-like behind her glasses. “I’m trying to ascertain if it was a faulty prophylactic, if he’s particularly virile, or if he’s merely careless.”

Franky was known for some outlandishly direct thinking that tended to eschew social norms. I loved her to bits, but she did make an interesting first impression.

“No idea.” Discussing Lars’s prophylactic habits was not on my agenda.

Franky took out her phone and made a note.

“What’s going on there?” It looked like a list of names, a few of which I recognized as Rebels team members. My uncle Jason’s name was on there, too—he played for the Boston Cougars—but his had been struck through. Curious.

“Just some research I’m doing.”

Rosie nudged Summer. “You’re looking at the brains of the family. Franky studies slugs and teaches all about them at Lakeshore U.”

“Gastropods, actually. With a side of mollusks.” Franky pushed back her glasses again.

“Wow!” Summer looked suitably impressed, if a little skeeved out at the subject matter. “You’re probably the smartest person here.”

“She is.” Rosie grinned proudly. “Her IQ is 151.”

“152,” Franky said. She was older than us, in her mid-thirties, and she never seemed completely comfortable at the Rebels parties. No doubt she found the jocks to be awfully tiresome.

“How’s Kat doing?” I asked.

Kat was Franky’s older sister and had recently had twins with her husband, an investment banker in New York. That prompted a review of photos, showcasing the little ones. A couple of minutes later I excused myself to go check on Mabel, and on my way, I ran into my uncle Jason dressed as a … Rebel?

“Addy!” He hugged me hard.

“What are you doing here?” A defenseman with Boston, he should have been at home, getting ready for the Cougars-Chucks game. It was also a little freaky to see him because I had just spotted him on Franky’s mysterious list.

“I’m on IR so I came home to visit my parents and you guys.”

Jason Isner was my dad’s brother and twelve years his junior. My dad hadn’t known their father, Grandpa Nick, for most of his life, and their reconciliation had been bumpy, to say the least. We were all close now, and Jason and my dad were incredibly tight.

I studied his costume. Rebels’ jersey, one fist strapped with a bloodied bandage, backpack with a creepy baby doll peeking out over his shoulder.

“Are you … Lars?”

He grinned. “Lars at Da Club! Do you think he’ll punch me?”

“We can only hope.” My family were so weird.

He spotted my dad who was chatting with one of Rosie’s dads, Cade Burnett, who was dressed as a “cereal killer”—a box of Cheerios wielding a plastic machete. “What’s my brother come as?”

“French Kiss?” At his blank look, I tried to explain. “He says it’s ‘a concept piece’ where he’s a French mime but with the makeup style of some ancient band called Kiss?”

Jason shook his head. “Never simple, that guy.”

I finally made my way to the menagerie where Mabel was the star attraction. On seeing me, she clutched the bars of the playpen and pulled herself into a sitting position.

“Hey, Moo-Belle, you having fun?”

She smiled, a big gummy grin that lifted my heart. Someone hunkered beside me, bringing with him his intoxicating scent.

“How’s my girl?” He was looking at me when he said that, and feeling flustered, I passed over it.

“Moo-Belle’s fine. And you look kind of ridiculous.”

“I look amazing, and you know it.” He leaned in and scooped up Mabel. “And you’re the sexiest Zom-bee here,” he murmured to me on his way back upright.

“Lars.”

“You gotta learn to control that blush, sweet thing.”

“Stop. It.”

“Uh, make me.” Said with a sexy rumble I felt all the way to my toes. He seemed lighter in spirit, almost playful.

I changed the subject quickly, which I was becoming very adept at. “Did you see my uncle Jason’s costume?”

“I’ve apparently achieved some sort of pop culture nirvana.”

“People keep asking me why you showed up at the club. Of course the baby-in-tow aspect is making waves.”

“Mabel and I had to pick up our third musketeer.”

That made me feel warm. I had to get away because I was going to make a fool of myself. Before I could, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

My father stood behind me. From his expression I didn’t think he had heard anything, but I was suddenly acutely aware of my reckless behavior.

“So, Twinkle, we were wondering if you’d play a few songs for the kids.” He held up my guitar, his expression hopeful.

“I don’t know, Dad. There are an awful lot of people here.”

“It was Lars’s idea. Tell her she’d be great, man.”

Lars’s idea? My boss cocked his head, his ear to Mabel’s mouth. “Moo-Belle says you have the sweetest voice.” His eyebrows drew together in concentration. “She wants to hear something about her people.” A pause to get clarification. “The cows.”