Page 21 of Moms of Mayhem (Mayhem Hockey Club #1)

By the time Stevie and Harper had left, Shannon was on cloud nine, and I was right there with her.

“It went so well, don’t you think?” I clasped my hands in front of my chest, a huge smile on my face as Stevie backed her minivan out into traffic.

“She slept through the entire class,” Shannon said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “You have weird standards.”

I dropped my hands down at my sides, turning away from the window. “You can’t rain on my parade today. She’s coming back next Tuesday.”

“For naptime, sure.”

I chuckled, then went behind the desk, finishing out the last of the closing tasks for the night. “Are you going to stand there and tell me you don’t want her to bring Harper back for another hour?”

“I mean, I’m a bitch, not a liar.”

The drawer snapped closed as I pulled my purse out, shaking my head. “So, I’ll keep you on the schedule for next Tuesday night, then. ”

Shannon pulled on her black puffer jacket, then tugged a burgundy beanie down over her brow, her long black hair hanging down beneath it in a chic way I could never figure out. “Absolutely, you will. Harper and I are best friends now.”

I flicked off the lights, grabbing my coat too. “I’m going to choose not to be insulted that we’re not friends, but a toddler who can’t talk is your friend.”

We walked outside together, the evening air carrying a bite to it despite the sunny day we’d had.

Shannon shoved her hands in her coat, then turned to me with a hint of a smile.

“She’s way cuter than you, and I get little kids.

Life is simple, in the best way.” She shrugged.

“Sometimes you’re pissed because your sock is turned wrong, and that’s worth being pissed over.

She doesn’t know yet that society is going to tamp her down until she’s just a remnant of who she once was, and throwing a fit over a sock is frowned upon. ”

“Geez, Shannon.” I locked the door, then turned back to her with a shiver, my coat still slung over my arm. “You’re just a ray of pitch black.”

She smiled, the dimples on both of her cheeks popping outright, making her look every day of the ten years younger than me she was. “Someone needs to balance out your sunshine.”

“Right, because that’s what friends are for,” I called as she moved toward her car down the street.

She turned, walking backward as her little car’s front headlights blinked when she unlocked it. “Except we’re not friends.”

I pointed a finger at my nose, then at her.

Shannon shook her head, then climbed in her car.

I waited until the engine turned over, always worried about how her old hatchback would handle the cold weather and snow up here.

She seemed more worried about getting through college with as little debt as possible, so a better, more appropriate car was not on her list of concerns.

I couldn’t help the motherly instincts that kicked in as I watched her pull out onto the road, back tires slipping before catching and propelling her forward.

Once she was gone, I climbed into Ty’s SUV, enveloped in warmth and luxury I couldn’t help but soak in. With a quick glance at Jace’s location, I headed to the rink, hoping I could catch the last of the practice.

The parking lot wasn’t nearly as full tonight, so I found a spot quickly, then grabbed Beckett’s hoodie off the front seat where it had sat all day, reminding me to return it.

Not until I got inside the building and it wasn’t any warmer than outside did I realize that once again, I’d forgotten my coat in the car.

I waved to Tate as I walked down the hallway toward the rink, spotting Beckett on the bench across the ice.

He stood with his arms braced on the boards, and I saw the wince as he shifted feet, taking the pressure off his hip.

A shiver raced down my spine as my breath fogged in front of me, and I slipped on Beckett’s hoodie for an extra layer.

Like his gaze was magnetized to the movement, I knew his eyes would be trained on me when I settled the hood over my head.

I looked across the rink, and just as I predicted, that blue gaze was staring right back, one eyebrow hitched high on his face.

“Ty.” He still looked at me as he called to my brother out on the ice with the players. “What’s the goalie’s name?”

“Miles?” the kid in question answered, pointing at his chest where he stood between the posts with his helmet up on the top of his head. “Miles Claussen. You mean me?”

“Yes, you.” Beckett’s attention broke from mine, but not before a wash of heat went through me at the memory of last night. “How many fingers am I holding up, Pickles?”

Beckett held four fingers in the air, and Miles looked from the players back to Beckett. “Uh.”

“Pickles!” another kid yelled. “Hell yeah, fuck yeah. That’s great.”

“Language,” Ty and Beckett said at the same time, and I bit the inside of my cheeks to keep in my laugh.

Ty slowly skated closer to the kid who stood in front of far too many pucks in the net. My brother slid off his glove, holding up the same four fingers as Beckett. “How many fingers, kid?”

I walked across the bleachers and took my seat, watching this whole thing play out.

“You see it too?” Beckett said to Ty, and my brother nodded in answer.

“Would make so much sense. His reflexes are great, just his timing is shit.”

“I can hear you,” Miles said, looking up at the stands, but I was the only parent here tonight. “And didn’t you say we weren’t allowed to swear?”

“Answer the question.” Beckett leaned forward until his elbows were propped on the boards and his back was flat, trying to relieve pressure on his hip.

“Son of a,” I muttered to myself, then stood up and cupped my hands over my mouth. “SIT DOWN, CONWAY.”

Every head snapped my way, and Ty bent at the waist, his chest shaking with a laugh. Beckett stared at me, his eyes amused and his lips tipped up in a smirk. Slowly, he lowered his ass to the bench, sitting down before looking back at the players on the ice.

“When was the last time you had your vision checked, kid?” Ty asked, and Beckett crossed his arms over his chest.

“Couple years ago?” Miles answered, his inflection going up on the end. “I have glasses, they just fog up out here when my body temperature’s elevated, and then I can’t see.”

“You mean you’re hot?” Jace said, and several kids on the team chuckled until Ty waved his hand to quiet them down.

Beckett hung his head, and his chest heaved with a sigh. “Ty, are there any eye doctors in town?”

Ty shook his head, then scooped up another puck, passing it to the players all forming a line to his left and right. “I’m on it.”

I leaned my elbows back on the row of bleachers behind me, a slow smile taking over my face as I watched the two boys I’d spent my whole life with turn into men right before my eyes.

One by one, Beckett called out weaknesses with each kid on the team, highlighting not only what he saw they were doing wrong, but minor tweaks they could help each kid improve. And each time, he gave them more and more ridiculous nicknames, including Jace’s very own Juice.

In the 30 minutes of practice I got to watch, the improvement in the Mayhem players was shocking to see.

Now that I was watching for it, I didn’t know why no one noticed Miles’ vision problem sooner. He was always in the right spot, doing everything he was supposed to. But every time the puck flew at him, there was this tiny delay, and it was just enough for it to slip past.

Miles wasn’t falling short because of effort or attitude—he was trying harder than anyone out there. He just quite literally couldn’t see the full picture.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I looked down to see an email from Jordan, with one word on it.

Subject:PT Check-Ins – Linwood Athlete

Done

Jordan Riviera, DPT

I twisted my hands in my lap, a riot of emotions flooding me. Taking Beckett on as a client was a smart move. Eight weeks with him and the mountain of debt that had been sitting on my chest like a brick would be gone. It meant forward motion, instead of just treading water.

But it also meant Beckett. Up close. Hands-on. Every single day. And that was complicated.

I was already too aware of him. Of the way he moved, the way he watched people when he didn’t think anyone was watching him. The way his voice dropped when he told me to touch myself and think of him.

There was no professional distance when my pulse kicked up every time the man so much as looked in my direction. Any walls I’d normally have against a man like him were gone because, deep down, I knew Beckett, or at least who he once was.

And the man sitting across the ice, coaching my kid through speed drills, was exactly who I remembered. Always wanting the best for everyone and determined to push them until they achieved it.

This wasn’t a crush. It was a full-blownproblem, and I was signing up for a front-row seat.

Soon enough, practice was over, and Tate lifted the garage door that housed the equipment to clean off the rink for the next team. Our kids had done this enough times, they knew the drill. One by one, they grabbed sleds and shovels, circling the ice in a pattern to get it cleared.

Ty stood in the center of the rink, directing them, and Beckett left the bench. I stood up, his hoodie hanging down to just above my knees and my hands lost to the sleeves, making my way toward him.

“Cute hoodie,” he said as I stopped in front of him.

“Cute limp.” I gestured toward his leg he wasn’t standing on, and the lack of crutches in the vicinity. “Didn’t think you were this stupid.”

Beckett grinned, then shook his head. “Cleared today. Did you hear the news?”

“That you’re mine for the next eight weeks?”

The grin on his face morphed into something different, and he licked his lips, eyes moving slowly down over my body still covered in his hoodie. “Just say the word.”