Page 103 of Moms of Mayhem
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? Consideringwe’rethe 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.
31
Girls’ night moved back to the Pilates studio after New Years, and sometimes we even did Pilates. It had become so integral to my weekly schedule, I now closed the studio at 5 on Tuesdays, the front lights off so everyone knew this was a private event by invite only.
Once the last class filtered out, Shannon reached under the desk and pulled out a blender, then several mason jars of what looked like lemonade. Stevie had shown up right at 5 with Harper on one hip, and a small Crockpot on the other.
“Emmy, did you remember the chips?” she asked as the door closed behind her.
“Did I remember chips,” I mocked her, pulling two bags of tortilla chips off the top of the cubbies. “What a question.”
“I’m confused what queso and Pilates have to do with each other.” Tate sat on the first reformer behind me, her long red hair tied up in a ponytail. She was decked out in leggings, a Mayhem hoodie, and grip socks.
Shannon didn’t even look up as she plugged in theblender. “You’re assuming there has to be a connection. That’s adorable.”
“It’s called balance.” I opened the chips with a satisfying crack. “Health and cheese can coexist.”
“They must,” Stevie said solemnly, stirring the contents of the Crockpot. “It’s a cornerstone of the Moms of Mayhem. Our motto, if you will.”
Tate blinked. “So, this is just… what, queso night?”
