Page 17 of Moms of Mayhem (Mayhem Hockey Club #1)

That tracked with the arrogant loudmouth I’d shared ice time with in Michigan before entering the draft. Couldn’t stand him then either.

“Cheater, then?”

Ty shot me a dry look. “Jace has a two-year-old little brother that they all learned about a little over a year ago. Emmy found the paternity test results in the mail, and it blew everything wide open. Cheating implies he was ever playing by the rules, so that word doesn’t even fit for a fucker like him. ”

“Damn,” I muttered, glancing toward the house. “How much does Jace know?”

“Plenty. You can’t hide a scandal when your dad is on national TV. Emmy tried to protect him, but once the ink was dry on the custody agreement, she packed him up and got him out of that bullshit Connecticut suburb. The kids there made his life hell. He was getting in fights every week.”

I remembered too well what it was like to be the kid in town with a dad everyone whispered about. How badly I’d wanted out and to never look back.

“They both needed a reset,” I said.

“They did.” Ty leaned back against the railing while Rowdy laid across his feet. “So do not screw with them. That kid’s finally starting to feel like himself again. And Emmy? She’s barely gotten her feet under her.”

I stiffened. “That a warning?”

Ty raised a brow. “Does it need to be?”

Footsteps thudded inside, and Jace burst out the door, hair damp, backpack slung over one shoulder and a protein bar dangling from his mouth, wrapper still on.

“Kid’s got talent,” I said, eyes still on Ty. “I think I can help. That’s all I’m interested in. ”

Ty clapped a hand on my shoulder, then turned toward his truck. Rowdy trotted ahead, hopping easily into the cab like the three-legged badass he was.

Jace adjusted his backpack strap. “Ready?”

“Come on, Juice.” I reached out and gave him a light swat to the back of the head. “Let’s get you to school on time so your mom doesn’t murder us in our sleep.”

I snapped a selfie of Jace and I at the front doors of the school, then sent it to Emmy to let her know I’d kept my side of the deal. When she texted back, I couldn’t help but flirt even though I knew I shouldn’t.

Today was my first checkup with my new doctor the team had assigned.

I sat in a different wing of the same hospital Mom had been in, this one decorated with portraits of famous athletes who had been treated at the state-of-the-art sports medicine clinic.

Thankfully, whatever Coach and Gavin had worked out with the team meant this was possible at all.

A monitor on the wall that was probably used to inspect imaging was instead lit up Brady Bunch style, showing Coach Tremblay, the Yeti’s head trainer Frankie Rhodes, Gavin, and even some of the Yeti’s front office staff.

I sat buck-ass naked under a hospital gown, but after decades in a locker room, that didn’t bother me as much.

There was a gentle knock on the door, followed by a young doctor entering the room, flipping through my chart. He looked up, a small grin taking over his face as he held out a hand .

“Beckett,” he said, his handshake firm. “I’m Dr. Carter. I’ll be taking over your recovery alongside your team’s staff.”

I nodded, then glanced up at the screen of faces all watching this, feeling like a goldfish in an aquarium.

Dr. Carter looked back at my charts. "Five weeks out," he said. "How’s the pain?"

"Manageable," I said, glancing at Frankie’s face on the screen across the room. "Better every day. I’ve only been taking Tylenol the last few days."

Frankie nodded, leaning away from the camera with his arms crossed. The screen light shone off his brown skin, a glare coming off his bald head. His shoulders barely fit in the screen, the former linebacker turned trainer just as broad as he’d been in his college days.

Dr. Carter’s little hum seemed pleased too. He gestured to the table, urging me to lay back. I did, and his cold hands gently inspected my incision, then guided my leg through a few movements. I gritted my teeth once or twice but didn’t stop him.

“You’re right on track.” He stepped away from the exam table and typed notes into the laptop across the room. “Are you still using the crutches?”

"Down to one, but I feel good enough to be done with them."

He looked back up, leaning against the counter. “I agree, based on your mobility today. You can be done with the crutches, but take it slow, especially in this weather. I know you want back on the ice yesterday, but if you rush this, you’re looking at setbacks, not speed. Let’s stay patient.”

I stared at my hands, trying to keep my thoughts to myself. Hell yes, I wanted back on the ice yesterday. Hockey was all I’d ever dreamed of, and being sidelined like this was killing me.

“What’s the plan for PT?” Dr. Carter asked.

“We’ve got it worked out,” Frankie said. “I made some calls and found a few options. Since Beckett has room for equipment in his mom’s basement, that’s the first step. We’ll do virtual workouts, but I also am going to work with someone local in Linwood.”

My attention snapped up to the screen, and I frowned at Frankie. “Who?”

“A woman in town was a physical therapist for a clinic back in New England, working with a buddy of mine. He swears up and down she’s great and can do the in-person checks for me. We can probably knock two birds out here too and have her check on your mom’s recovery when she’s out of rehab.”

“Who?” I asked again, racking my brain for anyone that fit that bill. As far as I knew, we didn’t have any PTs in Linwood. It was a small town, but I’d also been gone for a long time.

“Emily Meyers,” Frankie said, and I let out a sharp laugh. “Goes by Emmy, I think.”

I scrubbed a hand across my face, then pinched the bridge of my nose. Of course it was fucking Emmy.

“Problem, kid?” Frankie asked.

I looked up to see every single face on the screen studying me. Gavin’s little face stared daggers at me, looking like he was about to blow a gasket.

“Nope.” I popped the P, trying to think through how I was going to go about avoiding Emmy when I was contractually required to see her daily .

"Good,” Dr. Carter said. “You’re working on everything Frankie went over before you left town last week?"

“Yes, I’ve been keeping up my stretches like you showed me.”

“Great,” Frankie said. “Just remember you’re five weeks out of hip surgery, not auditioning for Cirque du Dumbass. Nothing risky.”

Dr. Carter let out a snort, then held up a hand in apology.

Frankie barreled on, immune to everyone laughing at his odd quips. “Apparently Emmy owns a Pilates studio in Linwood now. Starting next week, let’s add some Pilates into your rehab. It’s excellent for stabilizing the core and reactivating those deep hip and pelvic muscles.”

My brows hit my hairline. “Pilates?”

“That’s a great idea.” Dr. Carter pointed at the screen, and suddenly I hated that he and Frankie seemed to be on the same team. “If you start with mat work, I’ve seen it work wonders with athletes post-op.”

Frankie nodded. “We’re aiming for precision and control, not reps. If you’re compensating or shaking, you’re doing too much.”

I nodded slowly, still trying to picture myself in a Pilates studio. “But?—”

Frankie didn’t even slow his stride. “The only ‘but’ I want to hear is yours on the Pilates mat, doing your clamshells like God intended.”

Several of the people on the screen chuckled. One even wheezed. I just sighed like a scolded puppy, keeping my thoughts to myself.

“Depending on how you’re doing at your next physical, we’ll add some light resistance work in the next week,” Dr. Carter went on, “but still no skating or running.”

"When can I get back on the ice?"

“If everything stays on track, maybe around week 12. No contact drills until closer to 16 or 20. We’ll reassess as we go.” Dr. Carter stood and gave me a firm look. “Stay smart and we can get you back in time for the Stanley Cup, if the Yeti make it that far without you.”

“Sooner,” I said through gritted teeth. “I need to be back for playoffs.”

“You try to shortcut this, Conway,” Frankie said, and I glanced up at the screen to see him leaning in, “and the only thing you’ll be back for is a second surgery and a front-row seat in a suit.”

He raised a brow, waiting a beat to let his words sink in. “You don’t rehab faster by cutting corners. You rehab faster by not screwing it up.”

I opened my mouth, ready to argue, but Coach Tremblay cut me off before I could say a word.

“You heard them, Conway. Follow Dr. Carter’s instructions, do your clamshells like a man, and stop pretending your hip isn’t ready to send you into retirement if you don’t listen.”

I scowled at the screen, but Gavin’s wide-eyed expression and flared nostrils reminded me I didn’t have much leeway here. “Fine.”

Frankie gave me a look that was a mixture of pride and exasperation. "Good. I’ll see you back here in a week. Don’t make me send a team of clamshells to your house."

“That’s not even a thing,” I mumbled, sounding an awful lot like the teenager I’d dropped off at school a few hours ago.

“Act like a dipshit and it can be.”

Dr. Carter chuckled, then shook his head before handing me a slip of paper. “See you in a week.”