Page 32 of Moms of Mayhem (Mayhem Hockey Club #1)

“Another present?” my mom asked one morning, her eyes glistening with excitement. “I taught you well, son.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, clutching the terribly wrapped box to my stomach. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She let out a little laugh, adjusting the blanket over her legs on the new couch. “What did you get this time?”

My gaze slid down to the box in my hands, this one full of self-care items I’d purchased based on the guidance of an Instagram reel. “Stuff.”

This was the fifth day of presents I’d left on Emmy’s doorstep, hoping to brighten her day while Jace was gone. But then I saw the shy smile when she’d asked if the puzzle was from me, and I was addicted.

Each day I’d left something I knew she’d like on her doorstep, never extravagant but always picked with intention. But then Emmy started trying to catch me, and it became a game.

Two days ago, I barely made it back to the truck before her porch light clicked on. I peeled out of her driveway, heart pounding like I’d toilet-papered her house instead of leaving a gift basket with one of Tate’s hot pretzels and a case of cold Diet Coke cans.

Luckily, I had a misspent youth in Linwood that gave me plenty of ideas as to how I could do this and remain stealthy.

The next day, I parked two houses down, cut through a backyard, and hovered behind her recycling can for a full two minutes while her neighbor walked her dog in slow motion.

How an injured six-foot-four NHL hockey player hid behind a bin of flattened cardboard boxes was a mystery even to me. But I did it, all so I could leave a big bag of peach candy tied with ribbon and a note that read,

For when the week gets a little sour.

It was a good thing I was on long-term injured reserve—if the Yeti boys knew I was sitting here leaving presents on my crush’s doorstep, I’d never hear the end of it.

“She’s onto me,” I muttered as I grabbed my keys.

Mom didn’t even look up from her tea, enclosed in a stainless steel tumbler with a lid.

Her hands shook, but she didn’t stop trying, and that was a victory itself.

A home healthcare worker had been stopping by every day, helping me with the last of the changes we needed to make to the house to make it safe for her, as well as doing routine checks.

“Maybe it’s time you just tell her.”

I opened the door and paused, glancing down at the small package in my hands, heart beating faster than it had any right to.

“Maybe,” I said.

But not yet .

Not until I was sure she wanted it to be me.

My appointment with Emmy was at 10 this morning, so I left early enough to park down the street from her house, yet again. She backed out of the driveway, headed to the studio, and that was my cue.

Seven weeks post-op, and I was out here limping through a suburban snowfield like a one-man rom-com mission. All to drop off a box with fuzzy socks, a pack of face masks, and a bunch of beauty gadgets I had no idea what they were for, all without getting caught on camera.

Yes, camera .

To my dismay and utter delight, she’d installed one last night right above her porch, the world’s tiniest blinking red light daring me to try something stupid.

Challenge accepted.

I cut across the neighbor’s yard, boots crunching through day-old snow. My hoodie was pulled up, face turned away from the camera like I was starring in some amateur spy movie called Operation Bubble Bath .

By the time I reached her front walkway, my hip protested every step. Not full-on pain, but a slow burn that screamed, You’re not cleared for tactical crouching, dumbass.

"Just drop the box, Beckett," I muttered. "Place it gently. No limping. No slipping. Definitely do not eat shit."

A quick glance at the camera, then I ducked my head again.

"Fuck." Thank God home security cameras weren’t a thing when I was a teen.

I set the box carefully on the welcome mat, note taped on top, and backed away like it contained an actual bomb, not a bath bomb. A gust of wind blew across the yard, and the note fluttered .

“No, no, no—” I half-launched, half-hobbled toward the porch, grabbed the note, and slapped it back on the box. My palm left a wet handprint right on top.

The camera beeped. A red light blinked back at me.

Frozen in place, I hoped the camera would lose interest. Emmy wasn’t standing in her studio with her phone in hand, watching a man in a hoodie fumble with a pastel gift box. Right?

With a grunt that sounded anything but stealthy, I straightened up and shuffled down the street like a half-melted snowman with a bad hip. One hand on my thigh, the other struggling to keep my hood up.

By the time I reached my truck, breathless and covered in sweat, I knew the box was on the mat and the note was in place.

Maybe she’d read it before rewinding the footage, or maybe I’d just lost every ounce of mysterious charm I had left.

“You’re late,” Shannon said as I walked through the door to the Pilates studio a few minutes later. One dark eyebrow was arched, but she’d become far less hostile toward me over the last two weeks.

“Traffic.” I pointed over my shoulder toward the mostly empty street behind us, glad I’d stopped panting on the drive over.

Shannon shook her head and glanced down at the phone in her lap. “She’s waiting for you.”

With a little salute, I walked into the studio and through the rows of reformers. Ruth was in today’s class and waved as I walked by.

Dirty Little Secret began playing over the speakers, and I stifled a laugh, wondering just how much Shannon knew of my escapades.

“Hi,” Emmy said as I turned the corner into the rehab room. “You’re here.”

I held my hands out to the side, trying not to look guilty. “I’m here.”

“Oh, good,” Frankie’s voice said from the little iPad in the corner, and my shoulders sagged. I wasn’t sure whether it was with relief that I could avoid this conversation a little while longer or disappointment that I wasn’t alone with Emmy today.

The screen flickered, and Frankie’s bald head shimmered under the lights of the Yeti training room. Someone behind him was submerged in an ice bath.

“You made it,” Frankie said. “Look at you! Standing tall. Not waddling. There’s almost a pelvis-shaped glow about you.”

“Modified lateral step-ups,” Emmy said as she walked past me, snapping a resistance band between her fingers like a warning. “He crushed them yesterday.”

“Crushed is generous,” I muttered. “I did them without swearing. That’s progress.”

“Hell yeah, it is,” Frankie said, slapping the whiteboard behind him. It was chaos as usual—half a diagram of the hip joint, a meme about pain tolerance featuring a screaming goat, and the phrase ‘your labrum is your legacy.’ “You saw the surgeon again, right?”

“Yesterday,” I said. “And the brace is off. Still no high-impact but cleared for resisted mobility work and maybe some light on-ice edge drills soon if PT keeps going smooth.”

Frankie threw his hands in the air. “That’s what I like to hear! We’ll have you slicing ice like a hot knife through buttah by February. Assuming you don’t dislocate yourself trying to put on socks.”

“There was a close call,” Emmy said dryly.

“That was one time,” I grumbled.

Frankie leaned into the screen, smirking. “Well, the boys miss you. Sort of. Krieger’s got your locker now and keeps blasting alpha wave meditations while foam rolling. I’m ninety percent sure he’s summoning forest spirits.”

“Is he still trying to copy my shot?”

“Oh, he is, and it’s tragic,” Frankie said. “It’s like watching a duck try to ride a bicycle. Determined, but deeply wrong.”

I couldn’t help laughing. Emmy didn’t look at me, but she smiled as she walked past with a Pilates ball.

Frankie clapped once, startling whoever was behind him. “Anyway. You’re doing great, Beckett. New Year, new hip, no excuses. This is your comeback arc, baby. Just remember: stretch your hip flexors, hydrate like it’s a part-time job, and if you think clamshells are easy, you’re doing it wrong.”

“Thanks, Frankie,” Emmy said, still not looking up.

“Bye, Emmy! Don’t let him fake cramp out of bridges again!”

“I didn’t!” I called, as the screen went black.

She turned to me slowly, eyebrow raised. “Did you?”

I lifted my hands. “I had a leg spasm yesterday afternoon while we were going over my workouts. Technically true.”

She chuckled, and the sound was pure evil. “Technically, you're doing extra now.”

And just like that, my hip and I were back in the seventh ring of hell disguised as Pilates.

But if it put a smile on Emmy’s face, I wasn’t even sure I cared.

This was a terrible idea.

Emmy never mentioned this morning’s stealth moves, but she had to know, right? I agonized over it all day, trying to decide if it was worth remaining anonymous.

By the time dinner rolled around, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I shifted my weight on the porch and stared at the little blinking red light that had caught me this morning, not bothering to hide my face this time. Despite the chill in the air, the bag of tacos in my hand from Slice and Spice was sweating. Or maybe that was me.

In all of my 37 years, I couldn’t remember a time when a woman had ever made me this nervous, but the more I saw of her, the more I wanted her to smile.

And fuck, I loved being the one to make it happen.

When she didn’t immediately react to the motion sensor on her porch going off, I rang the bell and immediately regretted it.

Then the door opened, and?—

I forgot how to breathe.

Emmy opened the door in an oversized T-shirt that read Hurtin’ for a Squirtin’ across her chest, making me lose track of every rational thought I’d brought with me.

A bright yellow cartoon lemon smirked beneath the text like it was thrilled to be complicit in her crimes.

She wore matching lemon-print knee socks and tiny shorts that barely stuck out beneath the shirt on those long, bare legs.

I swear to God, it took every shred of restraint I had not to visibly short-circuit.

She had her hair twisted in a loose bun, soft brown strands escaping near her temples and along her neck—places I now desperately wanted to kiss just to see if she’d shiver.

Her cheeks were flushed from laughing, or wine, or maybe the warmth of the house.

Whatever it was, it made her glow like sin and sunshine at the same time.

I knew I was staring, and I tried to look away, to act normal, like she wasn’t currently the most dangerous thing I’d ever seen. But it was useless. She was legs and curves and soft skin and sass, and holy hell, I’d never wanted someone more in my entire life.

“Oh.” Her eyes went wide. “You’re not the delivery food.”

“No,” I croaked. “Nope. Not delivery.”

I was staring. Definitely staring. I wanted to stop, but my brain was now buffering in lemony heaven.

“I, uh—Well, I guess I’m kind of delivery. I brought food,” I managed, lifting the bag an inch like some kind of peace offering. “For you.”

Giggles erupted from behind Emmy’s door, and I realized she wasn’t alone.

“And your girls' night,” I added, staring at the siding above her head. “If—if you want. I just thought… I figured you might like company and maybe… tacos? Queso?”

The door pulled open to reveal Shannon, wearing a grin that was entirely too happy for someone wearing a purple T-shirt that said May I suggest the roast beef? with an arrow pointed straight down at her crotch. “Quit staring at her lemons, Conway.”

“I’m not—” I started, but Emmy was turning red, and so was I.

A third woman popped up behind them.

“Hi, Beckett!” she called, then dumped a bag of children’s fruit snacks into her tipped-back mouth. “Ignore the shirts. It’s a thing. Mine has semen on it.”

A choked sound escaped me, then I saw hers said Covered in Seamen , surrounded by tiny sailors.

“I have children,” she added, as if that explained any of this.

“I don’t even know what’s happening,” I muttered.

“That makes two of us.” Emmy bit her lip like she was trying not to laugh. “You, uh… want to come in?”

Did I want to come in?

Into a house full of half-drunk women in explicit T-shirts, one who might be my dream girl and another one carrying 20 years of unspoken resentment?

Every instinct said run. Get back in the truck. Pretend I left the tacos on the porch and vaporized into thin air.

But Emmy’s little smile seemed to say she hoped I’d say yes, and I couldn’t say no to that.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah.” I stepped forward. “Sure. Why not?”

As soon as I crossed the threshold, Shannon’s eyes narrowed like a hawk spotting prey. She stared at me in silence, a Diet Coke in one hand, the other resting on her hip like she was waiting for me to flinch.

Instead, I held up the queso like a white flag.

For one long second, she said nothing, then finally gave a single nod.

“Good,” she said. “You brought cheese. You can live.”

She turned and walked away, and I exhaled so hard I almost deflated.

Emmy looked up at me with a smirk, taking the other bags of food from my hands. “You passed the Shannon test.”

“I didn’t know I was taking it. ”

“Oh,” she said, already leading me into the kitchen, “you’ve been taking it since the minute you showed up in town.”

And just like that, I was in.

Still terrified. Still turned on. Still very much in over my head.

But in.