Page 4 of Moms of Mayhem (Mayhem Hockey Club #1)

The final horn blasted, ending the game with the Mayhem losing by six. The crowd shuffled down the ramps and out into the atrium outside the rink, headed for the exit.

“That was painful.” I leaned down to grab my crutches from under Ty’s and my legs, ready to leave. “A shutout to start the season.”

Ty grunted, but didn’t get up, still staring out at the ice while the teams left. Several other parents lingered around the rink, and I glanced at my friend for any hints as to what was going on.

The garage door at the far end of the rink housing the Zamboni opened, and Tate stood there with several shovels.

Ty walked down to where she opened the gate.

One by one, the parents who had stayed back grabbed shovels from her, then moved out onto the ice.

In practiced motions, they worked their way around the rink, smoothing over the surface.

I crutched my way over to them, putting light pressure on my leg. “What are you doing?” I asked Ty, glancing through the garage doors for a Zamboni that should be doing this job for them.

“Zamboni broke last summer,” he answered, taking a shovel from her and following the parents out onto the ice, scooping up the shavings the kids’ skates had left behind. “Hey Tate.”

Tate smiled, then raised her brows when she looked at me. With hockey skates on she was up to my chin and the spitting image of her late father, freckles dotting her pale skin. “I thought that was you before the game. Long time, no see, Conway.”

I nodded, trying to come up with what to say. In that “long time” was her dad’s funeral I hadn’t attended, unable to come face to face with the loss of my mentor and friend. “You’re all grown up now, aren’t you?”

She rolled her eyes, then took a bucket of water held on a sled and pulled it onto the ice. With a quick hop, she skated over the frozen surface, her homemade contraption spreading water in an even layer by the mop extending behind the sled.

There was a pond behind my mom’s house that froze over every winter, so I was no stranger to manually smoothing and caring for an ice rink, but seeing this in a frequently used commercial rink was jarring.

Ty came off the ice and stored his shovel on a rack against the wall as the other parents finished up.

But he didn’t walk away like the others did; Ty grabbed a set of skates and the second sled contraption, following Tate out onto the ice.

Rowdy climbed up onto the sled, tail wagging like he’d done this a dozen times.

I leaned against the glass, hands resting on the metal boards separating the rink from the stands, the ache in my hip a sharp reminder that I wasn’t cleared to so much as tie my own skates, let alone help.

I hated standing on the sidelines.

Watching instead of doing.

But this was my reality now—four weeks post-op from a hip labral tear that started with a dirty hit and ended with years of wear and tear catching up to me.

A month into the season, and boom—down for the count.

The surgery was one thing. The aftermath was another. So were the conversations that followed. Could I come back from this at 37? Everyone seemed to think I was a relic. They talked like I needed to hang it up and start practicing my golf swing.

Sure, I was a veteran. Sixteen seasons in the NHL. Tried and tested with four Stanley Cups to show for it. I’d earned every bruise, every scar, and I sure as hell wasn’t letting some hotshot rookie with too much ego or a washed-up NHL Tonight talking head decide when I was done.

I’d decide. No one else.

“Don’t break my boards,” Tate said as she came off the ice.

I looked down at where my hands clutched the metal, my knuckles white. Loosening my grip, I turned to watch Ty finish up and put his sled away.

“Is there a reason you haven’t replaced the Zamboni yet?” I gestured toward the sleds. “This seems like a lot of work.”

Tate clenched her jaw, her eyes turning to slits. “I’m working on it. I won’t let Dad’s legacy die like this.”

My gaze flicked to Ty’s, and he met my eyes with a shake of his head. “Well, let me know if you want help. ”

She threw her hands up. “Not you too. First Ty, now you just ready to swoop in and save the day.”

My eyebrows hit my hairline under my hat. “Is that such a bad thing? I mean, it’s not like either of us are hurting for cash. How much can a Zamboni cost? Couple grand?”

A laugh ripped out of Tate’s mouth, her head tipping back. “Oh God, I forgot how out of touch hockey players are.” She shook her head, cleaning up the rest of the garage and muttering, “ Couple grand , I swear.”

Ty put his skates back, then reached up above Tate to pull the garage door down for her. She slid the lock in place, then slapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Huddy.”

“Always.”

“Good to see you, Conway. Maybe stop by more than once a decade. The kids would love to see their hometown hero.”

I waved, resting my weight on my crutches as she walked off. Ty put his hands in his pockets and strolled down the bleachers toward the exit, Rowdy at his heels, and I moved to follow.

“Something going on between you two?” I asked. Ty was a loner, never one for many friends or relationships outside his family and the shadow of a rescue dog. Once upon a time, we were inseparable, and I would have already known the answer to that. Now, I had no idea what his life was like.

“Aside from me trying to keep this place from going under without her realizing I’m doing it?” Ty said, not turning to look back at me. “No.”

“Would you like there to be?”

This time he did turn. “For so many reasons, no. Coach asked me to take care of her before he died, which you’d have known if you came to see him. Or to the funeral. Or anytime in the last 20 years.”

I jerked back, the words hitting like a slap. And fuck, I deserved it.

“But also, when was the last time you talked to your brother? Because Mason has had a thing for Tate since they were in diapers.”

Ty pushed open the doors to the parking lot, and I followed him outside. It was snowing harder now, coming down in big, lazy flakes that made the mountain scenery look like a snow globe.

Linwood hadn’t changed much in all the years I’d been gone. The mountains still loomed like guardians around the town, evergreen trees dusted in white. The cold bit at my cheeks, but the air was clean in a way Denver never quite managed—crisp, quiet, sharp enough to make you feel something.

The rink behind us buzzed with laughter and skates carving into the ice with the Beer League guys starting up soon. But out here, it was just the hush of snowfall and the crunch of boots on packed snow. My breath puffed out in clouds, and I stood there for a second, letting it hit me.

I was really back.

Back in the town where I’d spent every winter morning freezing my ass off on a backyard pond.

Where Ty and I would race to see who could skate fastest before school, then ditch homework to do it again after.

Back in the place I’d left at 16 with stars in my eyes and a stick in my hand, convinced I’d never look back.

And yet here I was—older, bruised, busted-up—and somehow the mountains still looked at me like I belonged, even when I’d left everything important behind .

Guilt sat heavy in my chest as Ty approached a royal blue vintage F-150. Before he got to his truck, he turned back toward me, his keys in his hand. With quick movements, he pulled one key free from the ring and held it out to me.

“I haven’t been by in a week, but everything is pretty much the same since before the accident. The heater was working last I checked, but if it’s not, check the furnace in the basement. The flame might have gone out again. Call me if you need help getting it going.”

He dropped the key into my hand, and I glanced down at it. This was the key to my house, the childhood home where my mom had raised my brother and I, and yet it was Ty who took my mom to the hospital after her fall, who watched out over the property, who fixed all the messes I left behind.

“I’m sorry.” The words slipped out before I thought too hard about it. I looked up at my best friend, my fingers closing around the cold metal. “For a lot of things.”

Ty nodded, then opened the door for Rowdy to jump inside the pickup cab. “Do better. That’s all the apology I need.”

I watched him back out of the lot, headlights shining in the dark sky, then made my way to my own truck. It rumbled to life when I hit the ignition, then slowly backed out onto the road.

My windshield wipers flicked back and forth, clearing the window as I drove down the dark roads away from town.

My mom still owned a farmhouse on her grandparent’s property, sprawling acres of land butting up to the mountains.

Even after so many years away, I knew these roads like the back of my hand.

A text message came through, lighting up my touchscreen display, and I pushed the button on my steering wheel to read it aloud.

Mason Conway

Did you make it? Is she okay?

Showering and post-game interviews, then I’ll call you

I sighed, not ready to call my brother yet anyway. With both of us wrapped up in our NHL careers, neither of us had been around to see just how much things had changed.

Mom had always been tough. Quiet, self-sufficient, and proud to a fault.

She never asked for help, never wanted to be a burden.

And maybe that’s why I’d convinced myself there’d be time later—time after I retired, time to come home and reconnect, to finally be the son she deserved after all those years she held it together on her own.

But that phone call from the ER shattered that illusion in seconds.

“Shit.” I slapped my hands against the steering wheel, jaw clenched as I replayed every word. She’d slipped, hit her head, and broken her arm. The concussion was mild, but the doctor had sounded hesitant. Like there was more going on than just a bad fall.

They were worried about her mobility, her balance. Said she’d likely been struggling longer than any of us knew.

And I’d been so wrapped up in my own life—my injury, my career, my ego—that I hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t even thought to check.

After a flurry of calls between Mason and me, we knew one thing for sure—she couldn’t go back to that house alone. I’d looked into assisted living, but she’d shut it down before I could finish the sentence.

So here I was. On injured reserve, benched indefinitely, and suddenly faced with a version of my mom I wasn’t ready for. The strong, unshakable woman who raised us was slipping through our fingers—and I hadn’t even seen it coming.

The old cattle guards rattled under my tires, useless now that the ranch had been out of business since my grandfather died.

I leaned forward over the steering wheel, looking up at the farmhouse at the top of the hill.

The driveway would be plowed in the morning by the crew we’d hired to maintain her property, but tonight it was snow-packed.

Luckily, my 4x4 made the slippery drive, and I parked in the detached garage next to the house.

Everywhere I looked, I could see Ty’s efforts—a new safety rail along the front porch steps, a ramp from the driveway to the porch, and string lights hanging along the path to the frozen pond. I’d bet good money Ty had even prepped it for skating.

In fact, I hoped he had. I hoped he used it, maybe with that nephew of his. It was the least I could offer for everything he did for me and my family.

The door squeaked when I pushed it open and went inside, my crutches creaking on the old wood floorboards.

Even in the dark, everything felt the same.

I stopped to work my way out of my coat and hang it on the hooks behind the door, then sat on the bench like I had a thousand times before and took off my shoes.

Old habits died hard, and even without my mom’s scolding, I tucked them under the bench and out of the way.

After a day of driving and the hockey game, the thought of climbing the steps to my bedroom was entirely too much, so I left my crutches by the front door and lifted my foot, hopping on one leg down the hall and into the living room .

Heavy cream curtains hung beside the wide windows, a little sun-stained at the edges, framing a view of the mountains and the frozen pond where we’d learned to skate.

Moonlight spilled in across the hardwood floors, catching on dust motes and the edge of the old wooden coffee table that still bore a ring from Dad’s forever-missing coaster.

A brown leather couch sat along the far wall, creased and softened by years of use; the cushions slightly sunken on the right side where Mom always sat.

A small table beside it held her daily lineup: pill bottles in neat rows, a half-drunk glass of water, a box of tissues, and a Sudoku book with a cracked spine she hadn’t touched in days.

The heat clicked on with a familiar groan, and the whole room felt like it exhaled.

I let myself breathe deep, inhaling the woodsy scent this house always had.

There was a layer of must mixed in now, but the house was better than I was expecting after hearing her health had declined. I probably owed Ty for that, too.

I dropped my keys and phone on the coffee table, then sat down on the sofa.

My phone lit up with incoming texts, and I picked it up to click through them.

One from Coach, asking where I was, another from our head trainer, reaming me for missing a doctor’s appointment today. And then one I wasn’t expecting.

Mikko

It gets better, veli. You won't feel like this forever.

I stared at the screen, throat tight. Mikko Laaksonen, the Yeti’s star defender and one of my best friends, wasn’t the type to drop serious stuff unless it mattered.

He’d gone through his own hell, missed nearly a full season after an ACL tear, and clawed his way back to the top.

I wasn’t alone in wondering if he’d ever look like himself again, and thank God he did.

Our injuries weren’t the same, but he was throwing me a rope.

My phone buzzed again, this time from the far-less-eloquent Logan Parrish—our line’s forward and hands down the cockiest Alberta farm boy I’d ever met. The kind of guy who grew up chasing moose on a snowmobile and thinks duct tape can fix emotional trauma.

Logan

Bro, you dead? Or just being a duster and ghosting the boys?

I shook my head, half-smiling.

Me

Not dead. Just dealing with some stuff. I’ll catch up tomorrow.

Logan

Atta boy. We’ll save you a Gatorade and a warmup fight with the vending machine. Don’t get soft on us out there, Grandpa.

The phone landed on the table with a soft thud, and I leaned back against the couch, the quiet pressing in on me like a heavy blanket.

I knew Mikko meant it when he said it got better. I just hoped he was right. Because right now? It didn’t feel like it ever would.