Page 41 of Moms of Mayhem (Mayhem Hockey Club #1)

The rest of January settled into a rhythm I hadn’t expected, but one I started to look forward to.

Most mornings kicked off on the pond with Jace and Ty.

The kid laced up before sunrise, the cold biting at our cheeks while his skates carved fresh lines across the ice.

He talked a big game, chirped me every chance he got, but the kid had talent.

Ty let him think he was keeping up. Maybe some mornings, he actually was.

After that, it was straight into PT to keep my hip on track, then Pilates at Emmy’s studio.

I kept telling myself it was just part of my recovery plan, but truth was, I liked being there.

The way she quietly checked on everyone, her voice low and even, the kind of calm I didn’t know I needed until it wrapped around me.

How she made every single person in the studio feel like they held her whole attention, I didn’t understand, but I could see why she had such a loyal following at the studio.

It didn’t take me long to figure out Shannon controlled the playlists, and each one got a little more pointed.

The first class after New Years, every single song had the word kiss in the title.

Emmy blushed, I laughed, and the ladies snickered like they knew exactly what was happening.

This was a small town, and I’d kissed her right in the middle of the dance floor, so chances were high they did know.

Afternoons were a carousel of doctor’s appointments—some for me, some for Mom.

Since Emmy had mentioned red light and oxygen therapy, I’d bought everything I needed for both of those, trusting her completely.

Turned out that was a great decision—both my doctors and Frankie were shocked by how quickly I was progressing.

Mom started occupational therapy, tackling each new challenge her Parkinson’s diagnosis gave her with more grit than I could wrap my head around.

It was so good to hear her cracking jokes, still telling me to call Emmy, as if I didn’t already see her every day.

Still asked about the Mayhem boys like she was our assistant coach.

Gavin still hadn’t heard anything from the Yeti about my contract renewal for next year, assuring me the best thing I could do was get back on the ice.

At night, I either watched Yeti games or coached the Mayhem.

The high school team was coming alive, game by game.

Passes were sharper, their skating cleaner, and they were finally starting totrust each other.

We had a real shot at playoffs by the end of February, and I was continually shocked by how much I loved coaching, especially with Ty at my side.

I felt good. Really good, actually. But this was a different kind of busy than anything I’d known. The NHL schedule was chaos and cameras, hotel rooms night after night. This was both slower and faster, focusing on so much more than myself .

The only thing I hadn’t figured out was how to get five uninterrupted minutes with Emmy without Jace or my mom popping up.

After a string of away games with the Mayhem, we were back home for a Friday night game. Like that first night back in town, the stands were packed. Everyone stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the bleachers, decked out in green and black.

New speakers hung above the score board courtesy of my brother, even though we hadn’t come to a business agreement with Tate yet. She kept putting us off, saying we could meet about it after the season. That hadn’t stopped Mason from sending vendors to install new things, one after the next.

The locker room had undergone a complete renovation, including an exhaust fan that made it smell less like twenty teenagers who were in the height of puberty lived here. It wasn’t good, but it was less bad, and that counted for something.

I stood in the doorway of the locker room as the team finished gearing up, the sound of hockey tape stretching across stick blades as familiar as my own heartbeat.

“Ready, Coach?” Ty said as he walked by, Rowdy a step behind. The dog had spent so much time behind the bench, he’d become something of an unspoken mascot.

Scanning the stands one more time, I saw Emmy, my mom, and Ty’s little neighbor sitting in the last row at center ice. That I could find her so easily in the crowd only spoke of how deeply obsessed I was becoming with the woman.

I gave myself five more seconds to watch her laugh at something my mom said, then turned back to the room. The kids were geared up, some bouncing their legs like they had caffeine in their blood instead of nerves.

Stepping into the middle of the room, I waited. They quieted, eyes on me, the weight of the moment sinking in like they could feel it just under their skin.

“All right, listen up.”

My gaze swept the group—Jace chewing on the inside of his cheek, Molly adjusting her helmet strap, Miles blinking too fast.

“We’re over halfway through the season. You’ve come further than anyone thought possible back in December.

You’re playing like a team now, not just a bunch of idiots who skate fast and chirp too much.

If you keep doing that, if you stick together and play smart, you’ve got a real shot at the playoffs.

Not because anyone handed it to you, but because you earned it. ”

A few heads nodded, and someone thumped their stick on the floor.

“But let me be clear: no cockiness. You haven’t won anything yet.

You show up humble. You play clean. No fighting.

” I pointed at Jace, and he gave me a little salute.

“I don’t care if their forward hip checks you into the glass—take the hit and get back up.

If he talks shit about your sister? Beat him to the puck and don’t let him touch it. Let the scoreboard throw the punches.”

Rowdy gave a soft woof like he agreed.

“And shoot the damn puck,” Ty added, sweeping his gaze across the room. “I want shots from every line, every angle, every chance. We don’t score if we don’t shoot. You see a lane? Take it. You see a body in front? Go through them.”

I turned to Miles. “And you—contacts in?”

He nodded, looking a little green. “Yeah, Coach.”

“No clamming up halfway through the second this time, all right? Track the puck, stay square, and breathe. Trust your instincts—they know we have a hot goalie.”

He lifted his gloved fist, and I bumped it with mine.

I clapped my hands once. “You’ve got this. Let’s give this crowd something to get loud about.”

Ty whistled and banged his hand against the wall. The team let out a war cry that echoed down the tunnel. Rowdy barked once and trotted after them as they poured out toward the ice.

I let the wave pass me, heart thumping with the kind of anticipation I hadn’t expected to feel on this side of the ice. It wasn’t my game anymore, but damn did it feel good to be part of it.

“Tonight’s game is brought to you by Hudson Hardware,” the announcer said as we took the ice. “Because where else are you gonna go?”

I chuckled, looking over at Ty. “That was the best you could come up with?”

He shrugged. “They asked me for a tagline.”

With a shake of my head, I turned back to the ice. The puck dropped, and the game exploded into motion.

I’d been keeping track of the other teams we’d play this season, watching film of previous seasons. Going into it, I knew the Comets were both bigger and faster than mine. More disciplined than anyone we’d faced this season.

They played like a unit, tight formations and surgical passing that made my jaw clench and my legs itch to jump over the boards to get on the ice. It was going to be a grind, the kind of game where every shift counted and a single mistake could flip the scoreboard.

But our kids didn’t back down.

We hustled. Hit hard. Chased every puck like it was the last shift of our lives. It was messy in moments, giving the Mayhem name a new meaning, but we held our own.

Back on the bench, things got loud.

“Yo, number 12 skates like he just learned physics yesterday,” Delgado yelled over the boards, squinting at the opposing center like he was trying to solve a riddle.

“What does that even mean?” Ty muttered beside me.

“No clue,” I chuckled. “But I’m stealing it.”

“Hey!” Grady shouted next, waving his glove in the air. “Tell your goalie his mom called—she said he left the ferret in the washing machine again!”

“What?” Ty asked, baffled.

“Add chirping to our skills worksheet for this week,” I said. “That kid has a C in English and it’s showing.”

The next chirp came from Molly. “Hey 17, your stick handling’s so bad, even Google Maps couldn’t help you find the puck!”

I choked on a laugh. Ty just shook his head, and the rest of the bench howled with laugher when 17 turned around and missed the pass headed his way. “We’re coaching a team of full-blown idiots.”

“Yeah.” I smiled as Jace laid out to block a shot. “But they’re our idiots.”

And somehow, we hung on.

By the end of the third period, my voice was hoarse from both coaching and laughing at the progressively worse chirping coming from our bench. We were tied 3-3 with two minutes left in the game, and Jace’s line was up next.

“Watch number 9. Don’t let him touch the puck.” I patted him on the helmet before the shift change. “Get me one more goal.”

He nodded, and I glanced up in the stands.

Emmy stood in the last row, high above the other people around her.

The pom-pom on the top of her beanie bounced as she held her hands steepled over her mouth.

Juniper stood right next to her, splitting her focus between the ice and copying everything Emmy did next to her, right down to the hands in front of her mouth.

My mom sat next to them wearing a grin that spread from ear to ear.

“Line change!” Ty opened the door to the bench. Jace hopped over the wall as the others came off and sprinted across the ice.

Damn, seeing him explode like that, just like we’d been working on for weeks was something else. My whole body broke out in chills, my breaths coming a little quick as he raced toward the puck. His stick slid out to the side, scooping the puck out from number 9’s control, just like I’d told him.

A scramble broke out behind the net, everyone fighting for the puck. Molly snagged it, then snapped it out to where Jace waited in front of our goal.

In a split-second, he shifted directions, taking off down the ice with two defenders on his heels. He was so smooth, so calm, a surge of pride like I’d never known welled in me. I leaned forward, my hands resting on Delgado’s shoulders as I craned my neck to watch him race toward the goal.

“SHOOT!” Ty yelled, and Jace launched the puck. The goalie dropped, glove hand out, and the puck flew just over the top, crashing into the back of the net.

Jace’s arms shot in the air, and the bench screamed, slapping their sticks on the boards. I clapped my hands, then looked across the rink to see Emmy bouncing up and down, having just short of a full-blown meltdown she was screaming so loud .

My mom grinned at me, looking as proud as the day I’d been drafted to the NHL.

The music died down, and the kids met once again at center ice. The ref dropped the puck, and 20 seconds later, the final buzzer sounded.

“On the line,” Ty said, and we all filed off the bench and onto the ice. My feet were a little unsteady as I walked toward the opposing team’s coach, but it felt good to be out on the ice, even in shoes.

The two teams went down the line, fist bumping each other, and I did the same. At the end of the line was the Comets’ coach, an old friend of Coach Mikaelson.

“You know, I heard you boys were back.” He gripped my hand tight. “Didn’t know what to believe.”

I let go, and he shook Ty’s hand next. “Once a Mayhem, always a Mayhem, right Conway?”

“That’s right,” I agreed with Ty. “Great game, Coach. See you in the playoffs.”

The older guy shook his head, then waved us off, following his team off the ice.

By the time I made it to the locker room, chaos had descended.

Gear was everywhere, gloves and elbow pads thrown on the floor.

Someone had already spilled a Gatorade, and another kid was using a practice jersey to mop it up.

Rowdy barked twice and jumped up on the bench, tail wagging like he’d scored the game-winner himself.

Someone started banging on a locker in a victory drumbeat rhythm, and, of course, the rest joined in.

Jace sat on the bench, helmet off, cheeks red, hair soaked with sweat and pride.

I gave him a quick nod as I passed. “Hell of a goal. ”

He grinned, flushed and lit up from the inside. “Thanks, Coach.”

I turned to hang the clipboard on the wall when he said, “You think we’ll have a shot at State in March?”

I paused.

The question wasn’t complicated, at least not on the surface. But it hit somewhere deep, settling in a place I hadn’t realized was soft yet.

March.

I’d assumed I’d be back on the ice in Denver by then—rehab complete, hip ready, back in a Yeti jersey, chasing the Cup. That had always been the plan.

But now?

I looked at Jace, this kid who’d grown into something more than just Emmy’s son. I looked around at the chaos, at the stink and the noise and the locker room that felt more like home than any rink had in years.

I thought about Emmy up in the stands, her eyes shining, her voice hoarse from cheering. My mom beside her, smiling like she belonged there too.

And suddenly, the plan didn’t feel so solid anymore.

“How about we win the next game first,” I said finally, resting a hand on his shoulder.

He nodded, satisfied, already pulling his jersey off.

But I was still thinking about it long after the game, still feeling the shift under my feet. Because for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t sure what I wanted.