Page 31 of Moms of Mayhem (Mayhem Hockey Club #1)

One of the best parts about moving back to Linwood was a white Christmas was almost guaranteed. I woke up that morning to snow on the ground and sunlight bouncing off the mountains like someone had wrapped the whole valley in gold foil.

Inside, it looked like a bomb had gone off, like any house with kids should on Christmas morning. Wrapping paper everywhere, stray pine needles in my coffee mug, and a huge grin on my son’s face.

Jace sat cross-legged in front of the tree in a new hoodie, holding up one of my gifts. I’d gone a little overboard with the wrapping—velvet ribbon, tiny pinecones, and a hockey skate ornament tied on top that was quickly ripped off and flung across the room.

“This one looks like a Martha Stewart fever dream,” he said, squinting at the tag.

I grinned from the couch, a steaming coffee cup in my hands. “Thank you. I stayed up all night hand-lettering that. Glued part of my hair to the bow in the process, but it’s festive. Adds texture.”

He snorted, but his smile was soft when he opened the box.

Inside was a vintage Chicago Storm pennant and a framed picture of us at his very first NHL game, standing next to the glass with Ty on the rink.

I held Jace on my hip, and he had his little hand pressed to the glass to give Ty a high five.

Our backs were to the camera, Hudson written on our Storm jerseys with Ty standing between us.

It wasn’t lost on me that I had no version of this photo with Ryan, even though Jace’s dad had also been playing in the minor league then.

Even before he’d given up on his dream of making it to the NHL and settled into sports broadcasting, hockey had come first, and Jace and I ranked somewhere much lower on his priorities list. Things like asking for family pictures before a game would have set him off, insisting it threw off his focus.

And then there was my brother. Even when we were states apart, Ty had always gone out of his way to be in Jace’s life. Summers spent right here in Linwood, flying us to Chicago for home games, even setting up a spare bedroom in his penthouse just for my little son.

“Dude.” Jace held up the frame, then pointed in the background of the photo. “I totally forgot Ty was playing against the Yeti that night. That’s Beckett.”

I leaned forward, taking the frame from his hand, and really looked at it.

There in the background was Beckett—mid-stride, stick on the ice, eyes locked somewhere off-camera with that intense, do-not-mess-with-me expression I saw every morning while he battled through Pilates classes for the last week .

My finger trailed across the glass, wondering how many other times we’d circled each other, just out of reach.

“How’s his therapy going?” Jace asked, and I set the photo down in my lap. “We watched the last Yeti game at Ty’s house with him, and I can tell he’s dying to be back on the ice.”

My head bobbed back and forth far too many times to be considered a nod while I tried to tamp down any reaction to the mention of Beckett. “Good. He has a long road ahead, but he’s committed to it. You still like skating with him?”

Jace flopped back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and tugging at the strings of his hoodie.

“Yeah. He’s amazing. He’s not mean, but he’s tough—pushes me harder than anyone ever has but always points out when I did something right too.

I don’t know that I’ve ever had someone pay that much attention before, you know?

Makes me want to work harder, to be like him. ”

I stared down at my hands while he detailed everything the two of them had worked on each morning at the pond over the last two weeks, a riot of emotions flooding me: anger, that Jace has never once said anything like that about his own dad; awe, that my son was so motivated to work his ass off for his dreams; and more than a little empathy, because yes, I did know.

“I thought it might look good on your Juniors’ dorm wall someday.” I pointed at the pennant, aiming for casual and missing by a mile instead of answering Jace’s rhetorical question.

Jace’s head tipped my way, his hazel eyes soft. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Thriving,” I said. “Absolutely love sending my only child off to Connecticut the day after Christmas to live off protein shakes and passive-aggression. Think of all the things I’ll get to do alone , for once. No shoes to trip over, no wet towels on the floor, no trash on the coffee table.”

He rolled his eyes, then climbed up on the couch next to me, laying his head in my lap. His legs dangled over the armrest, way too tall for the little boy I still saw in flashes. I ran my hands through his messy hair, trying not to count how many Christmas mornings like this we had left.

Ty and Rowdy showed up an hour later to find us in the exact same position, watching Christmas Vacation with paper and ribbon still strewn across the floor. He stopped in the doorway, seeing the tears shimmering in my eyes, and gave me a soft smile.

“Breakfast?” Jace looked back over the sofa and snapped his fingers for Rowdy, who jumped up into my son’s lap.

Ty held up a carton of eggs fresh from his farm, and a pack of bacon. “On it. Want to help?”

Jace got up, and Rowdy followed him into the kitchen. I pulled my knees to my chest, staring at my two favorite boys, wondering how I’d gotten so lucky to win the genetic lottery.

My brother topped off my coffee to warm it back up, then got to work making a smorgasbord of breakfast food meant to feed a small army or a singular teenage boy—take your pick.

Together, we FaceTimed my parents in Arizona, the cacti in the background looking festive with a red Santa hat on the top like a tree-topper.

Originally, we’d planned to fly them out for Christmas, but with Jace leaving tomorrow, it just hadn’t worked out.

After 15 years of us all living in different parts of the country, a video call holiday wasn’t as weird as you’d think.

It was good to see them, but I wasn’t longing for home, not with Ty and Jace right here.

The doorbell rang, and I frowned, looking over at the only guest I’d planned on seeing today.

“I’ll get it,” Jace said, walking toward the entryway with Rowdy at his heels.

I peered around the corner, watching as he opened the door and picked up a package from the front steps. He closed it again, staring down at a wrapped present.

“Tag says it’s for you, Mom.”

He handed it to me, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

I stared down at the messily wrapped package.

The paper was plain red and folded a little wonky.

An excessive amount of tape held everything in place, looking like it had been applied in a fit of stubbornness rather than strategy.

The bow was more than a little lopsided, like someone had tried to make it look pretty, then given up halfway and hoped the effort would count for something.

The tag was simple. Just To: Emmy . No sender, no handwriting I recognized for certain.

But still, something fluttered in my chest.

It felt intentional. Not in the way someone might toss a gift into a bag and call it a day, but like this person—whoever they were—had genuinely tried. Like they'd stood at their kitchen counter with too much tape and not enough skill and thought of me the whole time.

I peeled the paper back carefully, my heart fluttering. Inside was a puzzle—soft winter colors, a quiet cabin scene tucked into snow-covered pines. A little folded note rested on top, written in messy, slanted handwriting .

In case the house feels a little too quiet this week. Hope it makes you smile.

No signature.

I sat there for a long moment, holding the note in my lap, heart tapping a little faster than usual. There was only one person I’d mentioned I sometimes did puzzles when Jace was gone. It wasn’t proof, but I couldn’t help thinking of Beckett.

Because Jace was right—Beckett made me feel seen. Not just looked at, not just noticed—but truly seen in a way that was both comforting and a little terrifying.

I wasn’t used to that.

Maybe the puzzle wasn’t from him. It could be a kind gesture from a thoughtful neighbor, or a well-meaning friend. But if it was Beckett…

I found myself wanting it to be.

Maybe there was something there. Something worth exploring, even if it didn’t last forever. But like Stevie said, it didn’t have to.

Some people come into your life not to stay forever, but to make you feel something again. To remind you that you’re still capable of soft things—hope, wonder, and leaning into someone new.

I traced my finger over the edge of the note, then set it gently aside.

Tomorrow, the house would be quiet. The kind of deafening quiet that screamed loneliness, if I let it. But when I opened the puzzle box and began sorting through the pieces, I wouldn’t feel alone this time.

No, this silly little puzzle made me feel chosen .

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself imagine what it might be like to choose someone back. Even if just for a little while.

The terminal drop-off was fast, and Jace barely looked back as he wheeled his suitcase toward security. I smiled and waved until he disappeared around the corner, then sat in the car for a solid five minutes, willing myself not to cry.

It didn’t work.

By the time I walked into the studio for Beckett’s PT session, my eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, and I was clutching my coffee cup like it contained the last drops of my emotional stability.

He was already there, leaning against the reception counter in his usual hoodie and backward ball cap. Six and a half weeks post-op, and he was finally starting to move like he trusted his hip again. Still stiff, still cautious, but steadier. Stronger.

His gaze met mine, and something in his expression softened.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and quiet like he already knew the answer.

I offered a smile that felt too wobbly to pass as casual. “Yeah,” I lied, setting my bag down a little too hard and pulling off my jacket. “I’m fine.”

Beckett didn’t press. He just gave a small nod, the kind that said okay, but I’m still here, and followed me into the rehab room without another word.

We went through the exercises, and I corrected his form once or twice, but mostly I just watched him move. He still wore the metal brace over his hip that restricted his movement, but if he kept up with his progress, this was probably the last week of it.

Beckett caught my gaze between reps like he was checking in without ever asking too much, only adding to the I feel seen thing.

“Hey, um… weird question,” I said after he finished his bridges on the mat. “Any chance you left a puzzle on my porch yesterday?”

He looked up at me, something unreadable flickering across his face before he shrugged. “What a nice gift.”

My stomach flipped. Not a no, but not a yes either.

Just enough to keep me wondering.

I nodded, pretending that didn’t make my heart twist more than it should, and went back to my job. But I couldn’t help it—every time he looked at me, I swore there was something in his eyes. A tenderness. A question he wasn’t sure he had permission to ask.

After he left, I cleaned up the studio in silence, glad I’d made the decision to lighten my work load this week. I drove home, telling myself to get a grip. To be grateful Ryan hadn’t bailed on Jace again, that I had a whole week to myself, and that crying at the airport was just part of the gig.

But when I pulled into the driveway, I spotted a little basket sitting on my doorstep. I parked my car, then hurried to the porch, picking it up. Inside was a soft coral blanket, still wrapped in ribbon, a little stack of paperbacks, and another note.

For cozy nights, swoony stories, and a reminder that some men know exactly what their women are worth. You deserve all three .

Once again, the note wasn’t signed, but it was the same handwriting as yesterday’s package. I stared down at it, fingers trembling, and felt the same warmth bloom in my chest as the night before.

It was him. I was almost sure of it.

I brought everything inside, set the books gently on the coffee table, and unfolded the blanket across my lap as I curled up on the couch. The house was quiet, only the gentle hum of the appliances to keep me company, but I didn’t feel as alone.

Reaching forward, I grabbed the book off the top and flipped it over to discover it was a hockey romance about a single mom. I let out a quiet laugh as I read the blurb about her falling for her son’s coach.

The next one was another variation: small-town romance with a heroine falling for her brother’s best friend.

Then childhood friends to lovers.

All different titles, all the same gentle nudge.

Someone knew exactly what they were doing.

Without thinking too hard about it, I pulled my phone from my pocket and snapped a picture—my lap covered in the soft coral throw, the first book centered neatly in the middle. I texted it to Beckett.

Emmy

Thank you.

Beckett

Looks like a good book. You’ll have to tell me about it in the morning.

Still no confirmation. No admission.

But I couldn’t stop the smile that took over my face, slow and warm and certain .

Beckett was giving me the space I asked for while making sure I knew I wasn’t alone.

No one had ever done that for me before.