Page 43 of Moms of Mayhem (Mayhem Hockey Club #1)

Tuesday morning Pilates shouldn’t have been sexy. But apparently, when Emmy Hudson was the one guiding my mom through modified stretches and mindful breathing, it was damn near erotic.

She was patient and encouraging, quick to help when Mom lost her balance, and somehow still focused enough to keep things professional—at least on her end.

Me? I was toast the second she bent down to adjust Mom’s form. Game over. Heart racing. Pants suddenly too tight.

By the time Mom was finished and cleared to leave, I was hanging on by a quickly unraveling thread.

I walked her out to the little SUV Mason had given her. She was steadier than last week, moving with more confidence, but I still hovered just in case.

“Thanks, hon,” she said once she was settled in the passenger seat. “That was a good session. I can feel it in my core already.”

“Means you’re doing it right.” I smiled and closed her door, then looked back at the studio. I hadn’t said goodbye to Emmy, and I wasn’t ready to leave.

I opened the car door again and said, “Forgot my phone. ”

She waved me off. “Go.”

With hurried steps, I slipped back inside the studio, pulse ticking faster with every step. The lobby was empty, Emmy’s staff gone for their lunch break. I moved between the reformers and found her still in the PT room, wiping down the table, her ponytail swaying with each motion.

She looked up, surprised. “Lose something?”

“Yeah.” I shut the door behind me and locked it with a quiet click. “My mind, every time I’m around you.”

Her lips parted just as I closed the distance—and then I kissed her.

No warning. No slow burn. Just pent-up tension crashing down as I grabbed her hips and backed her into the wall. Her body hit with a soft thud, breath catching as I pressed my hard length against her.

She gasped against my mouth, one hand fisting in the collar of my T-shirt, the other sliding under the hem to skim across my ribs. My hands were everywhere—her waist, her back, her thighs—and it still wasn’t enough.

I kissed her like I’d been starved for it.

“Jesus,” I muttered between breaths, forehead resting on hers. “I want you so bad it physically hurts. Stupid of me to only makeout on Friday night.”

She tugged me back in, lips swollen, eyes wild.

“I wish I had time to fuck you right here,” I whispered, voice rough. “Right up against this wall, hands in your hair, mouth on your neck, your legs around my waist, my cock buried deep in your pussy until you come all over me. ”

She let out a shaky laugh. “Yes. That.”

“Between your teenager and my mother, we’ve got the privacy of a shared bathroom in a locker room.”

That earned a snort and a grin that nearly did me in.

“But my mom is in the car,” I added with a groan, fingers still curled tight around her waist.

“Terrible timing.”

“The worst.”

I kissed her again, slower this time—memorizing the taste of her, the feel of her hands on me—and forced myself to step back before I did something reckless.

“Rain check?” I asked, still catching my breath.

“God, yes.”

I gave her one last look, every inch of me still humming, then turned and slipped out before I changed my mind and locked the door again.

Back at the car, I opened the door to find my mom sitting patiently, holding up my phone between two fingers like it was Exhibit A.

“You mean this phone?” she asked, one brow arched.

I stared at it, then took it with what little dignity I had left. “Yep. That’s the one.”

She smiled like she knew exactly what had just gone down. “Tell Emmy thank you for today. I felt strong.”

I sank into the driver’s seat, started the car, and muttered, “Yeah. Me too.”

We were halfway down River Street when my phone rang through the car speakers and Gavin’s name lit up the screen.

Mom raised a brow. “That’s the agent who says you’re his most frustrating client?”

With a sigh, I hit accept. “Hey, Gav.”

“About time, Sunshine. I’ve been calling since sunrise. ”

“I’ve been at PT.”

“Well, some of us have jobs that don’t involve foam rollers. But speaking of, how’s the hip?”

“Great. Strength and mobility are back where they should be. Getting on the ice any day now. Make sure the Yeti are paying Emmy well—she’s fantastic.”

“Good. One less excuse for the Yeti to stall out. Still nothing on the renewal paperwork, by the way.”

I shifted in my seat, fingers tightening on the wheel.

“Beckett,” Gavin sighed, already annoyed. “Do you want me to start making calls or not?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I always thought I’d be a Yeti until the day I was done. I’m still waiting to hear something from them.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear something from you . Do you want to play next season? Do I start shopping you around like you’re on clearance?”

“I’m not on clearance.”

“Then stop acting like it,” he snapped. “They’ve had your file open for three weeks and haven’t made a move.”

I didn’t say anything— didn’t know what to say.

Gavin sighed again, this time more tired than pissed. “Look. Just think about it. But don’t wait too long. There’s only so many teams with room for an old winger with a rebuilt hip and a habit of ghosting his agent.”

“You’re a real light in my life, Gav.”

“That’s why you keep me. Don’t screw it up.” He hung up before I even said goodbye.

The silence in the car stretched all of three seconds.

“So,” Mom said, her voice calm but probing. “What do you want to do next year? ”

I kept my eyes on the road. “Before the injury? Easy answer. I wasn’t done. Not even close. But now…”

She nodded, not pushing.

And that was the problem. I didn’t know.

I could see it now—staying in Linwood. Coaching Jace. Helping Mom. Waking up next to Emmy wearing that oversized hoodie I never intended for her to give it back. Sunday mornings. Pond skates. A quiet life.

It wasn’t the life I’d planned, but it didn’t feel like giving up, either.

“It’s something to think about,” Mom said, her voice soft. “Just make sure it’s what you want.”

“Yeah,” I murmured.

By the time we pulled into the driveway, Mom was nodding off in the passenger seat. I helped her inside and guided her to her new bedroom off the foyer. She barely made it to the bed before flopping back against the pillows and mumbling something about brain fog.

“Love you,” she said, eyes already closed.

I leaned down and kissed her forehead. “To the moon.”

She was snoring within minutes.

I went back to the kitchen and cracked open a cold Gatorade right as the back door swung open.

Ty and Rowdy stepped in like they belonged here, a greasy brown paper bag in one hand.

He lifted it like a trophy. “I bring tacos.”

“You’re a good man.” I grabbed two plates and handed him a bottle of Gatorade while he dropped the tacos on the already-chaotic kitchen island.

“How did she do at Pilates?” he asked.

“Great, actually. Emmy is awesome with her.” I tipped my head toward her room. “It wore her out though. She didn’t even heckle me about my driving today.”

“Miracles do happen.”

He jerked his chin toward the explosion of practice plans and player notes spread across the counter. “So? How are we feeling about this weekend?”

I took a bite of my taco, then gestured at the board. “Pickles is a wall now that he can actually see . Great goalie. Turns out, proper prescription lenses do wonders.”

“Wild concept,” Ty said, already unwrapping his second taco. “Kid played for years like Mr. Magoo.”

“Smash is still trying to figure out how to stop without hitting someone or something, but he managed a whole drill yesterday without bouncing off the boards.”

“Look at Delgado. Proud of him,” Ty said, deadpan. “Did he celebrate with a body check?”

“Into the bench. Progress, not perfection.”

We both laughed.

“Molly?” he asked.

“No notes. She’s a menace. Quick, smart, aggressive—honestly, she might be coaching us by the end of the season.”

“Wouldn’t even be mad.”

I tossed my taco wrappers in the trash and leaned against the counter. “And Jace… he’s leveling up every week. He found the juice. His speed’s unreal lately, and he’s getting better about reading the ice. Did you see that cutback pass yesterday?”

Ty nodded, chewing slowly. “He looks happy out there.”

“Yeah.” I smiled before I could stop myself. “He is.”

There was a pause—just long enough for me to feel it coming.

“And Emmy?” he asked, not quite casually .

I cleared my throat, glad I’d finished my lunch already. “We’re good.”

He gave me a look. “That vague answer brought to you by someone who’s fully whipped.”

I huffed a laugh. “Yeah. I am. I’m in deep.”

Ty didn’t say anything right away, just gave a small, resigned nod. “Well. As long as you keep showing up for her and Jace like you have been, we’re good.”

“They’re happy,” I said. “And so am I.”

“Then that’s what matters.”

He popped the last bite of taco in his mouth and washed it down with a swig of Gatorade, then set the bottle next to a clipboard covered in penalty kill notes.

“So.” Ty wiped his hands on a napkin. “What happens to the Mayhem when the Yeti call you back for team practice in a few weeks?”

I exhaled slowly. “We haven’t talked about that yet.”

Ty arched a brow. “Bit of an oversight, don’t you think? Considering we’re the ones coaching the team?”

I gave a sheepish shrug. “Honestly, the day I volunteered us to help, it was pure panic. A knee-jerk reaction when it looked like Mayhem was about to fold. No one else was stepping up, and I couldn’t let it die on my watch.”

Ty snorted. “So, you dragged me down with you.”

“Pretty much. I didn’t think we’d be able to turn it around like this though. We’re headed to playoffs if they don’t fuck it up. Are you sure you want to keep this going, even without me?”

He glanced down at the kitchen island—practice plans, game notes, and Gatorade bottles scattered between half-eaten tacos and a notebook covered in chicken scratch .

“Are you kidding?” He lifted his hat, then set it back down on his head. “This is the most fun I’ve had in years.”

I held out my hand, and he clapped his against it. “Same, brother. Same.”

“You have your next physical this afternoon, right?”

“Yeah, heading out once Mom wakes up. There’s a chance I’ll get cleared to skate today.”

Ty nodded. “Good. Then I can start kicking your ass again.”

I chuckled, a weight lifting off my shoulders. “Can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you over the years, Ty.”

He waved me off. “That’s enough mushy talk for now. Let’s talk PKs.”

We fell back into a rhythm discussing our players and how we could change up lines to make the most impact on a penalty kill. It was casual, and, in the grand scheme of things, unimportant.

But as we stood there—two guys in a cluttered kitchen, empty taco wrappers pushed aside, scribbled drills spread out like blueprints to something bigger—I realized I didn’t care about the grand scheme.

This? Coaching a ragtag group of teenagers, arguing strategy over Gatorade and game notes?

This mattered.

And it felt like exactly where I was supposed to be.