Page 111 of Moms of Mayhem
“I bet I can humble you in Pilates faster than that.”
God, I loved that about her. The way she bounced back. The way she could throw a verbal elbow with the same precision she adjusted a hip joint.
Mikko smirked. “I’ll take that bet.”
I chuckled and held a fist out to bumpagainst Mikko’s.
“Ihateboth of you,” Logan muttered.
Emmy crossed her arms, clearly enjoying herself now. “Nice to finally meet the infamous Yeti backup dancers. I hope you stretched.”
“What the fuck just happened to me?” Logan said outside my truck, his hands on his knees and heavy breaths fogging the air.
Mikko slapped him on the back, nearly sending Logan to the ground. “You got shown up by a 65-year-old woman in a bedazzled muscle shirt. That’s what happened.”
“You can’t tell anyone about this.” Logan straightened, then arched his back, twisting side to side.
I chuckled at the video playing on my phone, then hit send to forward it on. “Too late. Shannon videoed it, and I already sent it in the team chat thread. Ruth powering through her moves when you bailed out needs to live on in infamy.”
Logan grabbed the phone from my hand andMacho Manplayed through the speakers while Logan squealed like a pig with his legs in the air, stuck in some kind of twisted pretzel bridge while Ruth yelled at him to activate his deep core.
All three of our phones blew up with texts coming in, one after the next, but my favorite was one from Frankie.
Frankie
Look at Conway’s form in the back. You’re welcome for all those clamshells, boy. Parrish, on the other hand. We didn’t grind through three off-seasons building that glute shelf just for you to get folded like a lawn chair by Grandma.
Logan groaned and tossed the phone back at me like it burned. “Why am I friends with you?”
“Because you love the attention.” I fished out my keys and unlocked my truck.
We stopped when Shannon stepped out of the gym’s front door, dark hoodie pulled tight against the chill, her backpack slung over one shoulder and boots scuffing the pavement as she typed furiously on her phone, her face in a deep scowl. She moved toward the rusted hatchback beside my truck, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward us.
Her car looked worse in the daylight. More rust. More duct tape. The passenger door was a different color entirely, and the windshield had a crack spidering across the top corner.
Logan let out a low whistle. “That thing’s still alive? Colorado winter hasn’t put it out of its misery yet?”
She didn’t say anything, which was more than a little weird. I expected a sharp comeback, but the silence was somehow worse. I watched as she opened the door, tossed in her backpack, and slid behind the wheel with a glance over her shoulder like she hoped we’d just disappear.
The door creaked on the hinges when she climbed inside and turned the key.
Nothing.
Tried again. Still nothing.
She smacked the steering wheel, then rested her forehead against it for a beat.
I stepped forward and tapped the window. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”
She didn’t move. Just sat there for a second longer, staring at the dashboard like it might magically come back to life. Then she sighed, low and resigned, and opened the door.
“It's fine. I’ll figure it out.”
“It’s cold,” I said. “You’re not figuring anything in that death trap.”
She hesitated again, eyes flicking from me to Logan and Mikko, then back. “I don’t need?—”
“I know you don’t,” I said, gently. “But the offer’s there anyway.”
