Page 10 of Moms of Mayhem (Mayhem Hockey Club #1)

I waved a hand over my bum leg and the crutches. “But I don’t get a pass?”

Her head tipped to the side, giving me that same stare that had gotten me to confess many wrongdoings over the years. “You’re my son. Can’t have anyone thinking your terrible behavior is a reflection of my parenting skills.”

“Even when I’m 37?”

“Even when you’re 87, I’ll still be your mother.”

I nodded, my lips pulling up in a smile. “Missed you, Mom.”

She reached forward, her trembling hand brushing my long hair off my face. “Not as much as I’ve missed you, my boy.”

“Knock knock,” someone said from the doorway.

A short woman in a white lab coat stepped in, clipboard in hand. Her dark hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense clip, and her expression matched—sharp, efficient, like she didn’t waste time or words. As far as doctors went, she looked about as trustworthy as they came.

“Oh, good. You must be one of the sons.” She extended a hand. “I’m Dr. Miriam Navarro, head of Neurology.”

I stood awkwardly, crutches balanced under one arm, and shook her hand. Firm grip, calm eyes. I didn’t miss the quick glance she gave my leg brace before turning her attention to my mom.

“Lori, how are we feeling this morning?”

“Better now that Beckett’s here.” My mom beamed at me like nothing was wrong. Like this was a routine check-up and not a damn hospital room filled with machines and bruises. “Ready to break out of here.”

“Glad to hear it.” Dr. Navarro flipped through her notes. “Concussion protocol is complete, and your CT scans came back clear—no brain bleed, which is exactly what I wanted to see. Any changes in memory or mobility?”

“Other than this cast, no.” Mom held up her arm, the tremor in her fingers impossible to miss.

It wasn’t subtle. Wasn’t occasional. It was constant now.

My throat tightened.

I’d noticed it when she came down to Denver this summer—a shaky hand when she poured tea, a slight stiffness when she walked—but I brushed it off. Told myself it was age, maybe arthritis. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to see it.

“Good. And how are your ribs this morning?”

Mom tilted her head, wincing slightly. “Sore, but I’m okay. Ready to move.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ve got orders for inpatient rehab for the next week. Slow and steady is the goal,” the doctor said, then turned her attention to me. “And what is your plan for her care after she’s discharged?”

I leaned forward, trying to shift the weight off my hip. “Well… she’ll go back home, right?”

Dr. Navarro pressed the clipboard to her chest and looked at me the way you look at someone who’s about to get a dose of reality they didn’t ask for.

“She’ll go home, yes. But that house needs to be retrofitted from top to bottom to make it safe. No stairs, no rugs, grab bars in the bathroom, cleared walkways, lighting upgrades—the works. And more importantly, I can’t recommend her living alone anymore. Or driving.”

“Well, I’m not that ?—”

“Lori,” Dr. Navarro said, holding up a hand, and somehow, miraculously, my mother went quiet.

“Don’t get me wrong—you’re still sharp as ever.

But you’re also one of my most stubborn patients, and it’s time for a serious conversation.

Your Parkinson’s is progressing. Right now, I’d say we’re at Stage 2, possibly even Stage 3 if this fall is to be taken seriously, which I very much think it should be.

Living alone in a big ranch house miles outside the nearest town and almost an hour from the closest hospital is not advisable long term.

You need home health, if not a full-time caregiver. ”

My mom inhaled slowly, eyes falling to her lap, her fingers curling slightly as they trembled in her cast. “I hear you,” she murmured.

But I didn’t.

I sat there frozen, the rest of the room blurring at the edges, words floating around me like static.

Parkinson’s.

She had Parkinson’ s ?

My brain scrambled, searching for evidence—something, anything—that should have clued me in.

The tremors. The stiffness in her shoulders.

The way she’d trailed off during a phone calls like she was trying to find her words.

I thought it was just age. I thought she was tired.

Hell, I thought maybe she was bored up here in the mountains alone. But this?

She never told me.

Not once.

She had Parkinson’s Disease, and I didn’t know.

My stomach dropped, a hollow, sickening weight settling behind my ribs. How had I missed it? How had I not asked more questions? Why hadn’t I seen it?

This woman raised two sons on her own, taught middle school English for 25 years, and still found time to bake pies for the church bake-off.

She was tough as nails and always had been.

The kind of woman who didn’t break, who didn’t bend.

And now she was sitting in a hospital bed, hiding her shaking hands in a blanket and swallowing pain behind a smile, while I stared at her like a stranger.

I barely heard Dr. Navarro as she continued, flipping through her notes with practiced calm.

“For now,” she said, “I’m willing to clear you for inpatient rehab to work on your balance. Let’s give your ribs a week to heal before I release you into Beckett’s care.”

I blinked. “Wait, what? Into my care?”

She looked up, pushing her glasses onto the top of her head with a calm, too-knowing smile. “Yes, Beckett. I know exactly who you are and what’s going on. NHL vet. Big comeback. Busted hip. Crutches today, walking in a week if you’re lucky.”

I opened my mouth again to protest, to explain that I was leaving in two days, but she kept going, steamrolling right through my stunned silence.

“In fact,” she added, “I think these next three months together could be good for you both. Mobility is top of mind for you, Beckett, so you can make sure Lori here is doing all her exercises right alongside you.”

Three months?

I was supposed to be rehabbing in Denver. Getting cleared for playoffs. Fighting for one last shot at the Cup.

But as I looked at my mother—her hands trembling beneath the blanket, her face turned toward the window like she couldn’t meet my eyes—something shifted.

I hadn’t been there for her. Not really. Not for a long time. And when I finally showed up, I’d missed the signs.

I’d completely missed everything.

She’d always been the strong one. The reliable one. The steady ground beneath everyone else’s chaos. And she hadn’t even told me she was falling apart.

Suddenly, the list of things I’d get to after retirement glared at me like a giant to-do list written across my eyelids, unable to be cleared. And top of that list had always been, take care of Mom.

No more excuses. No more running.

I nodded, my jaw tight as I swallowed the guilt and the heartbreak and the sharp burn of anger, mostly at myself.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “We’ll figure it out.”

Because we would. Because I couldn’t leave. Not now. Not when it was finally my turn to be the one holding her together.

Mom sucked in a breath, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears, and Dr. Navarro barreled on like she hadn’t just upended both of our worlds. They continued talking about what the recovery process would look like, and I pulled my phone from my pocket to fire off a text.

Beckett

Change of plans. I’m staying in Linwood.

Gavin

…ok. For the week? How long are we talking?

Beckett

Til I’m cleared to skate. Make it happen.

My phone vibrated with an incoming call, but I slid it back in my pocket. Of all the things I’d thrown at Gavin over our long careers together, this might have been the biggest wrench, but also the most important.

“Sound good?” Dr. Navarro said, tapping her clipboard on Mom’s blanket-covered feet.

Before I could think through the implications of what I said, the words were out of my mouth. “Sounds great.”