Page 11 of Moms of Mayhem (Mayhem Hockey Club #1)
“Who was that guy?” Shannon asked as I ran through the studio doors, unzipping my coat and throwing it at her. She caught it, then hung it on one of the hooks along the wall for me. “And why is your coat all wet?”
“Tried to buy you coffee, and it backfired,” I said while hopping on one foot, unlacing my boots and sliding into my grip socks.
This was the one class of the day I could actually teach Pilates and workout at the same time, and I didn’t want to miss it.
“And no one. Can you figure out how to get a playpen by tomorrow night?”
Shannon looked down at my stomach, then up at my face, one black eyebrow lifted.
“Something you forgot to share with the class? And that didn’t look like no one.
That looked like Beckett Conway, which that paired with the playpen ask is raising a lot of questions.
You do know he’s trouble, with a capital T, right? ”
“Well aware of exactly who Beckett is. And were you watching with your face pressed to the glass?”
She let out an indignant huff. “Of course, I was. This town is boring as hell, and you went from looking like you were picking his grave plot to debating kissing him in the blink of an eye. It happened so fast, my neck hurts from the whiplash.” She shook her head, her black hair cascading down over her pale face.
“Shame, because I have just the spot to hide a body, but here you are talking about playpens instead.”
“Lots of things need to happen before I’d need a playpen, like break my year-long dry spell”—Shannon’s brows shot up and looked to the parking lot—“ not with Beckett. It’s for a friend.”
“You don’t have any friends.” The complete straight face she delivered the insult with made me chuckle, used to Shannon’s no-nonsense attitude after the last few months together.
“We’re friends.”
“We’re not friends.” Shannon propped her checkered Vans on the counter as she blew a bubble with the gum in her mouth. “I can’t be friends with someone who listens to country music unironically.”
I gasped, my hand over my heart. “How dare you talk about our lord and savior, Shania Twain, like that. I could fire you for this.”
“But you won’t. Because I’m your only friend.”
“But we’re not friends, remember?”
She pointed a long black nail at me. “Now you’re getting it.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I chuckled. “And I’m trying to change the no friends thing. Hence, playpen.”
Her dark eyes studied me, then her long black nails tapped on the keyboard at the front desk. “Best I can do is Thursday delivery. ”
I shook my head, grabbing the headset I wore to project my voice through the gym. “Needs to be tomorrow. Find one I can go pick up, even if I have to drive for it.”
She dropped her feet to the ground and pulled at the black plaid flannel over her Alice in Chains T-shirt. Every outfit she had was some version of this punk-goth vibe she committed hard to, and she had the slightly bored and disinterested vibe to go with it.
Most people knew her as the small-town rebel and the younger sibling of the two biggest troublemakers in town.
Despite her brothers’ bad reputation and her slightly intimidating get-fucked attitude, I loved Shannon.
She was the hardest worker I’d ever employed and motivated to get the hell out of Dodge.
And despite what she said, we were friends, no matter what little we had in common.
“What are we using this for? And don’t think I’m not going to circle back to Conway.”
“I’ll explain when class is over. Just make it happen.” I adjusted the knobs on the speaker pack I clipped to my waistband, then tapped the counter. “Find me some 90s country, please.”
Shannon shook her head. “You do this to torture me, don’t you?”
“If we were friends, maybe I’d be nicer.” I waved over my shoulder and walked behind the partition wall separating the lobby from the studio beyond. The overhead lights were dim, bright enough to see where you were walking and cast in a purple hue from the LED strips above the mirrors.
Twelve Pilates reformer machines lined either wall of the long and narrow room with mats and other accessories to their side.
Each reformer was long and low, a sleek stretch of metal and wood with a movable carriage atop.
Springs and attached to the foot bar, and pullies above the shoulder block, forcing my students to use controlled motions to survive the ruthless machine.
Every single one was occupied this morning, and I grinned at the sight. Nothing better than a full class of people willingly signing up to suffer quietly while I counted down ten-second holds with a smile.
When I’d pitched Ty on the idea of opening the studio, he’d gone all in with me, but I didn’t think he really understood the vision I had—just blindly supportive the way my big brother always was.
Tell Me Why by Wynonna drifted through the speakers, and I shook my head, smiling at Shannon’s song choice.
“Alright everyone, let’s get started. Set your springs to one red, one green, one blue, and lay on your back. Feet on the bar in Pilates stance. Heels together and toes apart, then push away for a count of six.”
An hour passed in a flash, and I walked away from the reformer with a satisfying burn in my muscles, waving goodbye to my patrons. Before I knew it, I’d taught six classes in a row to a wide variety of attendees, and the day was over for me.
“Playpen is ready for pickup in Glenwood Springs after 5 p.m. tonight,” Shannon said as I leaned against the front desk.
A low groan slipped out of me, and I dropped my head to the counter. “Nothing closer? Did you check the ski towns? I’ll pay more to not have to drive that far.”
“Sold out.” Shannon tapped the back of my head a little harder than necessary, and I looked up at her with a scowl. “Maybe I would have tried harder if you’d explained yourself.”
With a sigh, I reached down and slipped off my grip socks, then reached for my snow boots in the bottom cubby. “It’s a long story, but I met a woman who I invited to class tomorrow night at 5.”
Shannon frowned, then clicked around on the screen for a minute. “You don’t have a class at 5 tomorrow, and Michael doesn’t work Tuesday evenings, so we’re closed. You told me not to schedule you during dinner hours so you can go to the rink to watch Jace.”
“I know, I know.” I puffed out my cheeks, trying to think through how to explain why this felt important. Something about Stevie pulled me in, or maybe I just recognized that slowly drowning in what everyone says is supposed to be magical expression she wore. “I feel like she needs me.”
My not-friend shook her head, then grabbed my coat from the hook behind the desk and tossed it to me. “You’re just like Ty, you know that? Needing to swoop in and rescue everyone.”
I slid my arms into the jacket. “He does love a damsel, doesn’t he?”
“Says the woman currently driving his car.” Shannon arched a brow and gave me a pointed look.
“Listen.” I grabbed my purse and swiped open my phone to a text from Jace letting me know he was practicing with the team tonight after all.
“Pick your battles, Shannon. He wants me to drive his fancy car while mine won’t start when it dips below freezing and it’s the beginning of winter?
That one wasn’t worth stubborn independence.
And besides, you should see the Christmas haul I bought for Rowdy and the chickens. ”
“You bought the chickens presents.” Shannon delivered it with such little inflection, I chuckled at the non-question.
“Not like he’d let me buy anything for him, so yes, I bought the chickens presents. Well, really, my plan is to decorate the coop for them.”
Shannon shook her head and waved me off. “Your family is weird as fuck.”
“Darn.” I patted her cheek, then grabbed my keys and remote started the car, wearing a smirk. “Guess I’ll return your presents then.”
Her dark eyes flicked up to mine. “What did you get me?”
“Well, now I can’t tell you since I have to return it.”
“It’s weird to buy presents for your not-friends.”
“So weird.” I pushed the door open to a blast of cold air, then waved over my shoulder. “See you tomorrow!”
Lee Ann Womack blasted over the speakers as I got in the warm car, settling into the heated seats.
Of all the ways Ty had forced his way into my life over the past year, this car was the thing I felt like arguing the least over, especially as my hands curled around the heated leather steering wheel.
I’d made a decent living as a physical therapist assistant in Connecticut before the move and did okay off the Pilates studio income.
Between my paychecks and Ryan’s divorce settlement, I lived comfortably, but I didn’t have future NHL Hall of Famer money.
If my brother insisted on doing things like fixing my car and giving me his as a loaner then I wasn’t going to complain.
My fingers tapped along to the beat of the song as I drove through the snowy town toward the rink, passing the colorful row houses and shops littered along River Street.
Between the bright colors, the softly falling snow, the setting sun, and the cheery music, I couldn’t help but smile.
Life wasn’t perfect, but when was it? Every time I thought about my interaction with Stevie this morning, I got a little more excited, hoping she’d show up.
All day I’d thought about younger me, back when Ryan was playing minor league hockey, trying to make it to the NHL. I’d spent my days home alone with a cranky baby, wavering between awe that this was my life and despair that each of his little breaths was all my existence boiled down to.
In the 15 years since then, I’d come to terms with the fact that motherhood was like that—violent waves of emotion as you floated between feeling lost at sea and buoyed by love for your children that was so all-encompassing it was all you needed to survive.
Not food, not water, and definitely not sleep—just caffeine and pure adoration for the little life you created.
But, of course, that wasn’t sustainable either. At some point, I came to the realization I had to take better care of myself to be the mom I wanted to be. It was hard to show up and be present and happy when you were drowning.
Maybe I was projecting my journey on Stevie and she didn’t need me, but on the off chance she did, I wanted to reach a hand out and let her know she wasn’t alone.
I passed the last row of houses in town and crossed through the wide expanses of ranch land that backed up to the Gore Range mountains.
Ty had renovated my parent’s ranch house over the last decade and now lived on their property, surrounded by large expanses of nothing but his animals and the one neighbor he tolerated.
It was a far cry from his high-rise apartment in Chicago when he’d played for the Storm, but the peace and solitude our mountain town brought him suited my brother.
Living in a valley between two mountain peaks meant the roads were long and twisty, weaving alongside the Eagle River. It had been a long time since I’d spent a winter here in Linwood, but I knew these roads like the back of my hand.
The rink sat about two miles outside of town, backing up to the water.
Every night here was busy with multiple age groups using the same rink, and the parking lot was full yet again.
I turned on my blinker, listening to the steady click as I circled for an open spot close to the entrance when a black truck turned into the row from the other end, nose pointed at me.
I grinned, hand resting lightly on the horn and ready to fire. “Not today, Conway. Not today. ”