Page 109 of Moms of Mayhem
All of it.
I’d left Linwood once, sure it was the right thing. The only way to become who I was supposed to be.
But now?
Now it felt like the best parts of me had stayed behind.
If Denver called tomorrow, I had no idea how I was going to walk away from this without tearing myself in half.
The heater clicked on with a low hum, and somewhere down the hall, the pipes groaned like the place was exhaling right along with me.
I stared at the island where our practice plans still lay scattered, next to a wrinkled Gatorade label and the pen Ty kept forgetting to take with him.
I didn’t touch anything. Didn’t move. Just stood there, soaking in the quiet and the weight of it all.
Eventually, I shut off the hallway light, hung up my coat, and headed to bed.
Sleep didn’t come easy.
The next morning, I rolled over and blinked against the pale blue light leaking through my bedroom blinds. Jace had a test at school this morning, so Emmy insisted he skip morning practice. I’d slept in for the first time in two months, but rather than being relaxing, it was just weird.
Twelve weeks post-op, and I felt damn good.
Stronger. Looser. My stride was longer, my balance better. Still some stiffness in the mornings—and after a night spent with Emmy—but I’d never tell her that.
Once I got moving, I could almost forget what I’d been through.
Frankie was thrilled I was ahead of schedule. The graftwas holding beautifully, my range of motion was right where it should be, and the muscle tone in my hip flexors had come back quicker than expected thanks to Emmy’s help.
I wasn’t cleared for contact yet, but skating drills were back on the table, and the real stuff wasn’t far off.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a second, bare feet on the cold wood floor, then reached for a hoodie off the top of my dresser. I pulled it on, grabbed my keys, and slung my gym bag over my shoulder.
Emmy would be waiting at the studio, clipboard in hand, hair up, smirk locked and loaded. And I couldn’t wait to kiss the smile off her face.
I was about to lock up when a dark SUV turned into the drive. The doors opened, and two familiar figures stepped out.
“Of course,” I muttered under my breath, grinning as they came into view.
Mikko Laaksonen, the Yeti’s star defenseman and one of my best friends, shut the passenger door with a lazy thud. He had sharp Scandinavian cheekbones and short dark blond hair, complete with a look that said he’d rather be anywhere but suburban Colorado. “This house looks like a retirement home.”
“I mean, he is old,” said the guy next to him, tall and broad and unmistakably Canadian in the way he wore sandals despite the snow on the ground. Logan Parrish, full-time forward and occasional chaos goblin.
“Logan. Mikko,” I said, stepping off the porch. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Logan grinned. “Road trip, baby. Frankie said you were starting to skate again. With the Olympic break, he said we should come check up on you.”
Mikko rolled his eyes. “Frankiesaid. Like this wasn’t your idea.”
“You think the Yeti can survive without all three brain cells present? We’re the holy trinity of shift changes and miracle goals.”
I laughed and shook my head, letting them both in for a quick slap on the back. “You couldn’t have texted?”
“And ruin the surprise?” Logan smirked. “Never.”
Mikko just sighed. “I told him to text.”
I shook my head again, heart lighter than it had been in weeks. With everything going on here in Linwood, I’d dismissed how much I missed my teammates.
