Page 53 of Moms of Mayhem (Mayhem Hockey Club #1)

Mile High Arena pulsed with noise—skates carving into ice, pucks thudding against boards, the low hum of anticipation building to a roar. It vibrated in your chest, all adrenaline and edge, and it had my heart racing before the puck had even dropped.

State finals. We were really here.

The lower bowl was filled with far more spectators than I’d anticipated, our little town and the neighboring ones in the Vail Valley showing up in support.

Stevie stood in the front row against the ice, her sons each holding up painted posters—one read Meyers on Fire!

complete with a sparkly stick figure holding a flaming hockey stick.

The other said Mayhem? More like Slay-hem.

The “Y” in Mayhem had googly eyes glued to it, and there was a sticker of a smiling moose because why not.

Shannon and Tate stood in the row behind them, decked out in green. Luke held Harper on his shoulders, wearing little green ear protectors and clapping along to the music.

I stood just to the left of the rink entrance, hands curled around the railing, heart thudding like I was about to step onto the ice with the Mayhem.

Ty was behind the bench tapping helmets, clapping shoulders, and getting his kids ready during their warmup skate. His expression was all business—brow furrowed, jaw set.

But I knew that look. It wasn’t pressure. It was purpose . Coaching had lit something up in him I hadn’t seen since his early NHL days—before the injuries, before the grind wore him down. This was a different kind of fire. A steady one.

And watching my brother pour everything into these kids, watching him thrive in this next chapter of his life—it made my chest ache in the best possible way.

Ty wasn’t out there coaching to do me a favor—he was out there because he loved it.

Before I could get carried away by my emotions, I looked back out at the ice. The Mayhem looked loose, confident even. No signs of the team who’d been demolished 6-0 in their first game this season.

Jace adjusted his gloves and tilted his head toward the rafters to count ceiling lights, a pregame superstition he'd had for years.

I bit my cuticles, nausea bubbling up in my throat for my son, but he looked calm. Focused.

“I don’t like how he was carrying his stick,” Ryan said as he walked up beside me, leaning over the railing. “He’s dragging it. Lazy posture.”

I stiffened. The tension rolled through my shoulders like a slow wave at the sight of my ex-husband.

I wasn’t sure what I expected to feel, seeing Ryan again for the first time since I walked out of that glossy Connecticut house last summer. Dread? Anger? That slow, familiar ache of betrayal?

But none of that came.

All I felt was a sharp, focused protectiveness for Jace—fierce and blinding. The man beside me had messed with our son’s heart in ways I was still helping him recover from.

All the damage Ryan had done—every lie, every backhanded compliment, every moment Jace spent second-guessing himself because of it—rose like a tide in my chest.

There was no heartbreak left. No sadness. Just clarity.

Ryan hadn’t broken me. He’d taught me exactly what I would never allow again.

“He’s too far back in the line.” Ryan was in full-on commentator mode now—blond wavy hair perfectly coiffed, cuffed slacks too pressed, and a deep green quarter-zip that just barely nodded at team colors.

He looked like a man who’d walked off a golf course and into a boardroom, not one standing next to the rink at a high school state championship.

“He needs to be more aggressive, not waiting for a cue.”

I clenched my jaw and looked back toward the ice.

While Ryan listed flaws, I saw a kid who'd gotten up early every morning to skate, who'd pushed through losses and doubt, who earned his way here. A kid who didn’t need perfection—he needed support. And I wasn’t about to let anyone take that from him.

“Ryan,” I warned, but it came out softer than I meant.

“I told him he needs to get his head up,” Ryan added, tapping the metal railing like it was his own personal telestrator. “We’ve talked about this. Every video you send me, he’s looking down when he’s carrying through the neutral zone. That’s how turnovers happen. ”

I saw the moment Jace noticed him in the stands. His shoulders twitched, that familiar tightening I knew all too well. Not fear. Not doubt. Just the slow clamp of trying to be too much at once. To perform, to please, to carry weight that didn’t belong to him.

Ryan cupped his hands around his mouth, yelling, “Head up, Jace! You're dragging already!”

Jace deflated, snapping the practice puck off his stick in a slapshot that went wild, nowhere near the goal.

I gripped the railing so hard my knuckles ached. “Ryan. Stop.”

“This is why we need to get him up to Canada,” Ryan said, not listening to me. “Get him some real coaching, not just your little has-been team.”

I saw red.

It wasn’t just the arrogance or the jabs—it was the way Jace’s shoulders hunched, like all the air had been sucked out of him by the person who was supposed to build him up.

Fury surged through me, hot and wild, my pulse beating so loud it blurred the crowd into background noise.

My hands trembled with the need to shove Ryan back from the railing, to rip into him for every word, every years-long dig that had carved doubt into our son’s confidence.

I wanted to scream. To call out everything he’d failed to be.

But I didn’t.

Because Jace would see. Everyone would see. And the last thing my kid needed on the biggest game of his life was a front-row seat to his parents going to war in the stands.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Shannon cutting through the crowd, her jaw tight, eyes locked on me like she could sense the explosion brewing.

I forced myself to breathe, then turned to Ryan, voice low and lethal. “Say one more word like that about my son and I swear to God, you’ll regret opening your mouth.”

He smirked, the same condescending twist of his lips he’d used in every argument we’d ever had.

“And no one is taking my kid anywhere,” a voice said below me.

My breath caught, head snapping to watch Beckett walk down the tunnel toward the ice.

He strode forward in slacks and a Mayhem quarter-zip, his gait steady and sure, like he hadn’t just flown across the country to be here.

“Excuse me?” Ryan said.

But I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe when Beckett’s eyes locked on mine the second he cleared the hallway. His eyes held a giddy smile, but his body language told a different story.

His jaw was clenched tight, fingers curled around the duffel bag strap on his shoulder. His pulse hammering in his neck, just above the collar of his shirt.

He’d heard Ryan. Every smug, dismissive word, and he was just as furious as I was over the way he talked to my kid.

My kid. The words echoed in my head, making my heart race with each repetition.

And just like that, I went from rage to pure, aching adoration. It was whiplash. Heart-splitting, breath-stealing whiplash.

Of course, Beckett was here.

Because when it mattered, he showed up. Not out of obligation or for appearances. Not to criticize or make himself look good. But because he loved us. Because he meant it when he said he wanted to make this work.

Ryan had shown up today because it lined up with his schedule, and it looked good to have a son playing in the state finals. Nothing was ever really about us, always twisted to how it could make him look best, and only when it was convenient.

But Beckett… Beckett showed up despite the miles, the pressure, the playoff race waiting for him in Denver. He came because his priorities weren’t cloudy—they were crystal clear. And he’d just claimed my kid as his own.

He dropped his duffel bag on the rubber floor, walked past the players coming off the ice and back to the locker room, and grabbed the railing, hopping up until his face was level with mine.

And for the first time all day, I could breathe again.

“You’re not in Seattle,” I said, barely able to get the words out through the lump in my throat.

Beckett shook his head, eyes alight with that quiet joy that never failed to wreck me. “Nah. I heard there was a team of has-beens about to win the State Championship. Figured this was the place to be.”

My heart flipped, and if we hadn’t been in front of half the state and my seething ex-husband, I might’ve launched myself into his arms right then and there.

“ Your kid?” Ryan snapped, his voice sharp and shrill enough to cut through the noise of the arena. His face had gone crimson, lips pinched like he was holding back a full-blown tantrum. “What, you think you can fuck my wife and suddenly claim my kid now too?”

With perfect timing like the universe had planned it, Jace skated off the ice, eyes scanning the stands as he tugged his helmet off. He froze mid-step when he spotted Beckett, then seemed to take in what Ryan had just said.

Beckett hopped down off the railing and met him at the base of the ramp, calm as ever. He clapped a hand on Jace’s shoulder and gave him that grin that always made my kid stand a little taller. Then he looked back at Ryan, gaze steady, voice low.

“Yeah. My kid,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “How can you not love him? He’s got more heart and hustle than half the NHL, and the mouth of a seasoned locker room vet. He’s sweet to my mom and his. And when life punches him in the gut, he just skates harder.”

Then Beckett’s eyes flicked to me, warm and sure and absolutely devastating.

“And his mom?” He gave a low whistle. “She’s not your wife. You lost the right to call her that a long time ago. So yeah, I’ll claim them both, every chance I get. If they’ll have me.”

Jace’s head snapped toward me, brows raised in surprise. But Beckett didn’t flinch. He turned, meeting Jace’s gaze dead on.

“We were going to wait until this summer to talk to you properly,” he said, voice steady.

“But I’m all in, Jace. With her. With you.

With this whole messy, wonderful life. I love her, and I think you’re the best damn kid I’ve ever met.

I’d be proud to call you my family, if that’s something you’d be okay with. ”

Jace blinked. A beat of silence stretched—then my arrogant son shrugged, the barest flicker of a grin tugging at his mouth.

“Dude. You think I didn’t already know?” He jerked his chin toward me. “She hasn’t smiled this much in a decade, and I have access to the doorbell camera, dumbass. You’ve been toast since New Years.”

I let out a laugh-sob that broke straight through my chest, hand flying to my mouth. Every nerve in my body buzzed with love for both of them.

“You can’t just stake claim on my kid,” Ryan said.

Beckett turned back to him, that glacier-calm composure hardening into steel.

“Sure I can,” he said. “His biological dad is a real dick and left the position of ‘decent man worth looking up to’ wide open, so I’m stepping in. Gladly.”

Jace smirked, tilting his head toward Ryan. “Fine by me.”

Ryan sputtered, nearly tripping over his own fury when he pointed a finger at me. “You did this. You turned him against me. This is parental alienation, and it violates our custody agreement. I’m calling my attorneys.”

“Cool.” Jace adjusted his elbow pad. “Can they skate? We could use one more defenseman.”

Beckett let out a low laugh, and I saw the corner of his mouth twitch like he was barely holding back pride.

Stevie reached me just in time, slipping a calming hand on my arm while Tate looked on with her phone suspiciously angled like she was filming the whole thing in case we needed it in a future custody battle.

Shannon stood a row in front of me, directly between me and Ryan like my own personal guard dog.

“Let’s go,” Ty called from the end of the hallway, giving his best friend a little nod of approval. “Locker room, kids.”

Jace gave me a look—a mix of apology, resolve, and something stubborn and fierce—and jogged down the tunnel with Beckett right behind him.

And just like that, the storm moved on.

But the aftershocks? Oh, I felt those in every part of me.

Shannon eyed me like she was assessing damage. “Do I need to walk you to the bathroom so you can scream into your hands for 30 seconds? Or is this more of a hot pretzel moment?”

I let out a shaky breath, blinking fast. “Honestly? I might need both.”

Ryan turned toward me, mouth already opening, jaw flexing like he was gearing up for a monologue I didn’t ask for.

But Shannon cut him off without even glancing in his direction. “Read the room, Vineyard Vines. Unless the next words out of your mouth are ‘you can have full custody and a big, fat check’, keep it to yourself.”

Ryan’s jaw snapped shut like a trap, color still high on his cheeks as he glared at us, but, for once, said nothing.

Stevie tugged on my arm, pulling me back toward where Luke sat with the kids. “Let’s go before she gets banned from this arena for homicide.”

I leaned my head on her shoulder, grateful I’d honked at her in that stupid parking lot and found my people.