Page 54 of Moms of Mayhem (Mayhem Hockey Club #1)

The Denver Yeti locker room felt different today, and not just because it was full of kids rather than grown men. It was quieter, almost reverent.

The Mayhem shuffled inside like they were stepping into church, wide-eyed and buzzing with the kind of nervous energy that only came with state championships and dreams that suddenly felt real.

Their voices bounced off the walls, soft and awed.

A few of them trailed fingers along the edges of lockers, like maybe just being in this space would turn them into the players they’d always wanted to be.

And there, dead center of it all, was Jace.

Sitting in my stall.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, staring at the Conway nameplate emblazoned over his head in that same spot I’d claimed for years.

His elbows rested on his knees, chin tucked like he was trying to stay cool, but I saw him scanning the room.

He leaned back just a little, like the weight of the moment was pressing into his spine, trying not to freak out.

I was barely holding it together, because seeing Jace sitting there wearing my number and sitting under my name was him claiming me right back.

I cleared my throat, the sound sharp in the stillness. Every head turned my way.

“I’ve been in a lot of locker rooms,” I said, voice steady even though my chest was tight. “Stanley Cup qualifiers. Olympic trials?—”

“Okay, showboat.” Delgado cut in, loud enough for the whole room to hear.

A ripple of laughter broke through the nerves. I grinned and rolled my eyes.

“Just trying to establish my street cred, kid.”

“Pretty sure coaching a bunch of hormonal teens did that,” Molly said. “Takes some real bravery to put up with these losers.”

More laughter followed, and I raised my hands, encouraging them to settle. “Some of the biggest games of my life started right here, in this room.”

I paused, letting my eyes sweep the space—these kids, this team, my team now.

“But standing here today, with you guys? This is the proudest I’ve ever been to wear a team’s colors.

When I came back to Linwood, I thought my career was over.

I didn’t know what came next, and I was lost. But watching you push through every practice, every loss, every early morning skate—you reminded me why I fell in love with this game in the first place. ”

“You crying, Coach?” Jace asked, then threw a towel at me. “Here’s a towel for your feelings.”

The room lost it, howls echoing off the walls.

I laughed too, throwing it back at him and shaking my head as I fought off the ridiculous sting in my eyes.

Ty stood just off my shoulder like always. He gave a sharp nod, voice quieter but no less firm.

“You’ve earned this.” Ty pointed a finger at the floor. “You’ve fought tooth and nail to be right here, in the finals. Now go show them why no one wants to face the Mayhem in March.”

The room exploded in shouts, sticks slapping on the floor in a rhythm. Every single one of them was fired up, and so was I.

Hell, I might’ve been the only NHL player who felt more purpose coaching from behind a youth bench than chasing glory under stadium lights. But with this team? With this kid?

Yeah. This was the most important game of my life.

The first period hit fast and hard.

I stood at the end of the bench beside Ty, arms crossed tight over my chest as the Mayhem hit the ice like they had something to prove. The Kodiaks were no joke—big, disciplined, and sharp as hell on the breakout. But our kids met them stride for stride.

Jace was locked in from the first face-off.

Head down, skates blazing, he chased every puck like it owed him money.

But he wasn’t just fast; he was controlled and focused.

He took a hit behind the boards on his first shift, and I held my breath, waiting for the temper that used to flare up and cost him time in the box.

But it didn’t come.

He popped right back up, shook it off, and got into position like nothing happened. No chirping. No slamming his stick. Just pure composure.

Ty leaned in. “He’s not fighting himself anymore.”

My throat was too tight to answer, my chest feeling like it might crack wide open.

Molly ripped a shot just wide early on, and Delgado flattened a Kodiak forward in front of the crease like he’d been waiting his whole life for it. Miles made a glove save so slick it had the whole crowd on their feet.

But the Kodiaks were relentless, and with two minutes left in the first, they capitalized on a rebound and slid one past Miles. 1-0.

I didn’t flinch, and neither did our bench.

Ty muttered, “We’re fine.”

And he was right.

The second period belonged to us.

We came out with teeth. Delgado pinched hard at the blue line and kept the puck in, swinging it across to Molly, who deked her defender with a move so clean the stands erupted. She passed it straight to Jace, and my kid— my kid —didn’t hesitate. Quick wrist shot, top shelf, blocker side.

Tie game.

The bench exploded, but Jace didn’t even celebrate. Just turned and skated back like it was routine. Like he expected that goal.

“That’s new,” I muttered to Ty.

He smirked. “Damn, he looks like you out there. Uncanny what a good role model can do.”

I grinned, then looked up in the stands and found her.

Emmy was on her feet, clutching a soft pretzel like it was a lifeline, cheeks puffed out like a damn chipmunk. Her eyes were locked on the ice like her whole soul was down here with us.

I laughed under my breath.

Ty caught me staring and groaned. “God, she’s still the same. Stuffing her face mid-heart attack like snacks will ward off stress.”

“She’s perfect,” I said without thinking, still grinning like an idiot.

Ty gave me a long-suffering look, then went back to the game.

The rest of the period was a war. One shot after another, bodies crashing into the boards, sticks clattering on the ice. Miles made a series of saves that had the Kodiaks’ fans groaning in disbelief.

At the horn, it was still 1-1, and every single player on our bench looked hungry.

Ty clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You good?”

I gave a slow nod, heart thudding, eyes still on the ice.

“I’ve never been this proud of anything in my life.”

The locker room was buzzing when we stepped inside—sweaty, hyped, half-shouting over one another as skates squeaked against rubber floors and sticks clattered into racks. The scoreboard read 1-1, but the energy in the room felt like we were already winning.

I waited a beat before stepping in front of the whiteboard, letting them burn off that adrenaline.

Ty followed me in, already unzipping his jacket, eyes sweeping the room like he was cataloging every bounce of the knee and crack of knuckles.

“Alright,” I said, loud enough to cut through the chaos. “Kodiaks are big, but they’re tired. Watch their line changes— second line’s gassed and late getting back. If we can catch ‘em on transition, they’ll fold.”

Heads nodded. Molly wiped sweat from her forehead, looking anything but tired.

“Delgado, keep doing what you’re doing on the blue line. Miles, you’re dialed in. Keep your glove hot.”

He gave a sharp nod from his stool, sipping water like it was rocket fuel.

“And Jace,” I said, catching his eye. “Their left defenseman’s falling for your outside move every time. Next shift, fake wide, cut inside, and take it to the net.”

Jace smirked. “You got it, Coach.”

Ty stepped up beside me, arms folded. “Stay smart. Stay aggressive. You’ve earned this. Go take it.”

As the team started to rise and regroup, I caught Jace’s shoulder and pulled him aside. His cheeks were flushed, hair slicked back, eyes still burning from the second period.

“Hey,” I said quietly, hand still on his shoulder. “No matter what the scoreboard says when this is over, I am so damn proud of you. Not because you scored. Not because you’re flying out there.”

His brows lifted, waiting.

“You’re playing with control. With purpose. You’ve earned every second you play out there by being the biggest hustler on the ice. I’m so fucking proud.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to crack a joke but didn’t quite get there.

“I’m lucky to know you,” I finished, voice rough. “Lucky as hell to be part of this.”

Jace looked down, then back up with a grin I’d know anywhere.

“Cool.” He dropped his helmet down over his head and buckled the chin strap. “But if number 6 takes a cheap shot at Molly one more time, my gloves are coming off.”

I huffed out a laugh and slapped his helmet. “Just don’t get thrown out of the damn game in the third period.”

He walked out with the rest of the team, fire in his veins.

I stayed back for one extra second, just breathing it in.

This team.

This moment.

This kid.

Game on.