Page 52 of Moms of Mayhem (Mayhem Hockey Club #1)

By the end of February, I was skating with the team again. Running drills, crashing into the boards, feeling like myself. Between Frankie’s routines and Emmy’s suggestions, all of my rehab had paid off.

But my apartment was too empty, too quiet.

I talked to Jace every morning while he and Ty drove to the pond before school.

They kept me updated on practice schedules and the team’s group chat drama, and once sent me a video of a locker room dance-off that made me snort coffee through my nose.

The Mayhem were on fire, headed straight into the finals for playoff season, and I was living vicariously through them.

Emmy called every night, sometimes for five minutes, sometimes for an hour. Just hearing her voice settled something in me, but the silence after I hung up always came louder.

I was grateful to be back in Denver, healthy, and on the verge of a comeback. I wasn’t taking any of it for granted. But each time the Yeti notched a win, each time the guys made a play that lit up the rink, it wasn’t the same. Not when I knew what I was missing to be here.

Over the last few weeks, I’d managed a few stolen nights—quiet getaways on my rare off days when the travel schedule lined up and nobody was watching too closely.

I’d hit the road before sunrise, make the mountain drive to Linwood just to be there for one practice, one dinner, one night where I could fall asleep with Emmy curled against me.

Then I’d wake up to sneak out of the house, and come back in to Jace grumbling about breakfast cereal, unaware I’d slept just down the hall.

It wasn’t sustainable, but it kept me sane.

By mid-March, those chances disappeared. I was traveling with the team again, the calendar was packed, and expectations were mounting. My ability to sneak away slipped through my fingers, and the distance stretched wider by the day.

Going weeks without seeing Emmy and Jace wasn’t just hard—it felt like losing parts of myself I’d only just gotten back. As much as being off the ice had killed me, being away from them was almost worse.

“You should have seen it,” Jace said the night after they won the semi-finals, his voice buzzing with adrenaline and eyes alight with excitement even through the video call.

“Molly got checked so hard she flew straight into their bench and took out three players. She’s so fucking good its criminal, and yes, I swore. Shut up.”

I chuckled, loving his enthusiasm. “So, how’d you score then?”

“That’s the craziest part. Somehow, she still managed to keep control of the puck. Got it to me, and I nailed the top shelf like it was nothing. Everyone lost it. I think Ty even smiled. ”

I laughed as I leaned back against the headboard in my hotel room. “That’s gotta be a sign of the apocalypse.”

“Seriously. It was the best game of my life,” Jace said, a little breathless as he flopped back on his bed, holding the phone above his face. “I wish you could have seen it.”

His face softened, not angry, just honest.

I rubbed the back of my neck, throat thick.

“I know, bud. I wanted to be. The whole Yeti locker room was watching the clips your mom sent over my shoulder. Logan put the end of the game on in the locker room so we could all see it. I even wore my Mayhem hoodie. Doesn’t matter if I’m a thousand miles away—I’m still your biggest fan. ”

“I know,” he muttered, his cheeks pink with a blush at the idea of all my teammates rooting for him. “It was just fun when you were on the bench.”

“It really was, huh?”

We sat in silence for a second, letting the ache settle between us. Then I cleared my throat.

“You ready for State?” I asked. “You nervous?”

“No,” he said instantly, but his gaze drifted to the side. “Yes. Maybe.”

His cheeks puffed out, and I gave him the time he needed to figure out what he wanted to say.

“Dad says he’s going to try to come to the game. Think you can be there, too?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, hating that I didn’t know. “I’m trying my best, bud. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

Not until the words were out of my mouth did I realize what I’d said, and how deeply I meant it.

There was nowhere I’d rather be.

Not on the ice at Mile High Arena, not racking up points in the NHL, not chasing a comeback that had driven me so hard through recovery, not even a Hall of Fame induction ceremony.

Just there . With him. With Emmy. With the people who didn’t care about the number on my jersey or the highlight reel on ESPN. The ones who’d celebrated my smallest wins like they were monumental. Who showed up, every time, no matter what.

We hung up shortly after, and I stared at the ceiling, phone still clutched in my hand. Something loosened in my chest—something I hadn’t even realized was wound tight.

For so long, I’d thought making it back to the NHL was the only path forward.

That if I couldn’t get back on the ice, I’d lose the best parts of me.

But watching Jace become the player he was, watching Emmy rebuild a life from the ashes of everything she’d sacrificed… maybe it wasn’t about getting back.

Maybe it was about being present.

The Mayhem bench didn’t come with an arena spotlight but it came with Jace. With pride. With joy. With something that felt a hell of a lot like purpose.

Maybe the comeback I was meant to make wasn’t to the NHL.

Maybe it was to them.

Shortly after, Ty called.

“She’s holding it together,” he said, without preamble. “But barely.”

My stomach twisted. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” My best friend sighed. “Everything. Ryan says he’s coming, but she’s afraid he won’t show and Jace will play like shit again. I have more faith in him than that—Jace is playing like he’s got something to prove—but she’s feeling all of it. ”

I scrubbed a hand over my face, wishing I could do anything to help.

“Have you heard from the team yet?”

Staring down at the stack of papers on the bed next to me, I said, “Today, actually.”

“And?”

“One-year renewal. It’s a good deal. Gavin thinks I should take it.”

“What do you think?”

I thumped my head against the headboard, at a loss for how to explain that everything I’d fought so hard for wasn’t that appealing anymore.

“She’s not going to ask you for anything,” Ty said after I didn’t answer. “You know that, right?”

“I do know that.”

“But if she did?” Ty asked, voice low, serious.

“Maybe you have the right idea, walking away from it all.”

“Whether it’s today or next year or five years from now when your bones are nothing but dust as the oldest fucker in the league, home will be right where you left it.”

Ty hung up, not bothering with a goodbye, which was so very Ty of him.

As if summoned by the weight of it all, my phone buzzed again. Emmy.

I answered before the second ring, grinning at her beautiful face staring at me.

“Hey.” The words were soft and tired and somehow still the best sound in the world. She had on my hoodie, snuggled in her bed, and I’d give just about anything to be there next to her.

“Hey, Peach. ”

“You talked to Jace?”

“Yeah. That kid is bouncing off the walls. Said it was the best game of his life.”

“He is,” she chuckled, her eyes alight with happiness. “And it was. He played out of his mind.”

“Damn, I’m so proud of him,” I said, meaning every word. “It’s killing me to miss it.”

“I hate that you’re not here,” she whispered. “But I love that you’re doing what you were born to do.”

“Got a morning skate in with the team this morning,” I said, needing to make all of this pain I was putting us through worth it. “Playing like my hip is brand new, like I had this super hot, really talented PT that kicked my ass back in shape.”

She grinned, her smile watery. “I’m so proud of you . It’s killing me to miss it.”

I ducked my head, savoring her words, and wishing like hell I could kiss her. “What am I doing, Emmy?”

“Showing my kid how to work your ass off to chase your dreams, even when the odds are against you. Getting back on the ice before the end of the season, proving everyone wrong. Teaching Jace and I that physical distance is a sham excuse for lack of attention, that’s what you’re doing. So, go win that Cup for me, yeah?”

I nodded, barely holding my emotions in check. “Then I’m coming straight home to you. All summer, we’ll do this for real.”

Emmy smiled. “I like that plan.”

We stayed on the line, not saying much. Just breathing. Just holding onto every little moment together.

“Conway.” Coach Tremblay tapped my locker as I pulled on my hoodie after practice the next week. “My office.”

“Ooh,” Logan drawled from the next stall, half-dressed and already halfway into a protein bar. “Dead man walking. Should I start a GoFundMe for your funeral or just make a eulogy for the boys?”

“Make it a slideshow,” I said dryly. “Include my greatest hits.”

“Can I be in charge of the soundtrack?” Logan asked, deadly serious. “I’m thinking dramatic violin over your hip injury montage. Or maybe some super sad Celine Dion.”

“Don’t let him do that,” Mikko muttered, taping his stick with methodical calm. “You remember the birthday video.”

Logan grinned, all too proud of the cinematic masterpiece he’d created—a slow-motion montage of our rookie goalie Nate Kozak housing ice cream after every win, set to emotional indie ballads and ending on a close-up of him licking a Drumstick like it was the meaning of life. “That was art.”

“That was cruel and unusual punishment,” I grabbed my water bottle. “For both him and everyone who had to watch it.”

Logan gave me a mock salute as I passed. “Godspeed, Cap’n Comeback.”

I smirked and shoved open the office door.

Coach Tremblay stood with arms crossed, that hard-to-read expression of his somewhere between approval and suspicion. Frankie was perched backward on a chair, spinning a dry erase marker between his fingers like it was a dagger and he was about to challenge someone to a duel.

“Sit,” Tremblay said.

I sat.

Frankie pointed the marker at me. “So. Any phantom hip pain? Ghosts in the joint? Spooky cartilage spirits?”

I shook my head, barely holding back a laugh. “You’re so fucking weird.”

Coach didn’t blink. “How’s the body, Conway?”

“Strong,” I said. “Stable. I feel better than before the injury.”

He nodded once. “Good. Because the plan is to play you in the last regular season game next week. Ease you in before playoffs.”

That electric jolt of adrenaline hit my chest—but behind it came that familiar tug. The one that always pointed somewhere else lately.

Coach studied me. “You ready?”

I nodded, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

“You sure?” he asked. “Not just your body. Your head. You’ve done the work, but I’ve been around this game a long time. I can tell when a player’s carrying something off the ice.”

I stared down at my hands, trying to come up with what to say.

Frankie leaned in like he was about to whisper some ancient wisdom. “You constipated? You’ve got the look of a man who hasn’t shat in three days.”

“Frankie,” Coach warned, and this time I did laugh.

“I’m good,” I said, forcing a breath. “Focused. Grateful. And shitting normally, thanks Frankie. Just want to make it all count. ”

Tremblay narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t signed your contract extension.”

Shit.

“I know,” I said, carefully neutral. “Gavin’s looking it over. Nothing weird, just making sure it all makes sense.”

“It’s a good offer,” Coach said.

“I know.” My heart raced with every passing second. The silence was heavy for a beat.

“Jace is in the state playoffs tomorrow, right?” Coach shifted gears like he knew he wasn’t going to get more out of me on that today.

“Yeah.” I couldn’t hold back my grin. “They play tomorrow at 3 in our arena. Logan’s planning a watch party in his hotel room.”

“You’ve been watching film like it’s your job,” Frankie said. “Which it isn’t, by the way.”

Coach gave me a long look, then nodded once. “Well, tell Logan you have to miss his little soiree. Your plane leaves after our game tonight. Go see your kid play.”

My head snapped up, meeting his gaze. “You sure?”

“I have you booked back out Sunday morning to meet up with us in Edmonton,” he said. “But yeah. Go be where you need to be. Then come back to me, head in the game.”

I stood, emotions clogged in my throat. “Thank you, Coach. Really.”

He held his hand out to shake, and I put my hand in his. “Make it count, Conway.”