Page 128 of Moms of Mayhem
“I hate that you’re not here,” she whispered. “But I love that you’re doing what you were born to do.”
“Got a morning skate in with the team this morning,” I said, needing to make all of this pain I was putting us through worth it. “Playing like my hip is brand new, like I had this super hot, really talented PT that kicked my ass back in shape.”
She grinned, her smile watery. “I’m so proud ofyou. It’s killing me to miss it.”
I ducked my head, savoring her words, and wishing like hell I could kiss her. “What am I doing, Emmy?”
“Showing my kid how to work your ass off to chase your dreams, even when the odds are against you. Getting back on the ice before the end of the season, proving everyone wrong. Teaching Jace and I that physical distance is a sham excuse for lack of attention,that’swhat you’re doing. So, go win that Cup for me, yeah?”
I nodded, barely holding my emotions in check. “Then I’m coming straight home to you. All summer, we’ll do this for real.”
Emmy smiled. “I like that plan.”
We stayed on the line, not saying much. Just breathing. Just holding onto every little moment together.
“Conway.” Coach Tremblay tapped my locker as I pulled on my hoodie after practice the next week. “My office.”
“Ooh,” Logan drawled from the next stall, half-dressed and already halfway into a protein bar. “Dead man walking. Should I start a GoFundMe for your funeral or just make a eulogy for the boys?”
“Make it a slideshow,” I said dryly. “Include my greatest hits.”
“Can I be in charge of the soundtrack?” Logan asked, deadly serious. “I’m thinking dramatic violin over your hip injury montage. Or maybe some super sad Celine Dion.”
“Don’t let him do that,” Mikko muttered, taping his stick with methodical calm. “You remember the birthday video.”
Logan grinned, all too proud of the cinematic masterpiece he’d created—a slow-motion montage of our rookie goalie Nate Kozak housing ice cream after every win, set to emotional indie ballads and ending on a close-up of him licking a Drumstick like it was the meaning of life. “That was art.”
“That was cruel and unusual punishment,” I grabbed my water bottle. “For both him and everyone who had to watch it.”
Logan gave me a mock salute as I passed. “Godspeed, Cap’n Comeback.”
I smirked and shoved open the office door.
Coach Tremblay stood with arms crossed, that hard-to-read expression of his somewhere between approval and suspicion. Frankie was perched backward on a chair,spinning a dry erase marker between his fingers like it was a dagger and he was about to challenge someone to a duel.
“Sit,” Tremblay said.
I sat.
Frankie pointed the marker at me. “So. Any phantom hip pain? Ghosts in the joint? Spooky cartilage spirits?”
I shook my head, barely holding back a laugh. “You’re so fucking weird.”
Coach didn’t blink. “How’s the body, Conway?”
“Strong,” I said. “Stable. I feel better than before the injury.”
He nodded once. “Good. Because the plan is to play you in the last regular season game next week. Ease you in before playoffs.”
That electric jolt of adrenaline hit my chest—but behind it came that familiar tug. The one that always pointed somewhere else lately.
Coach studied me. “You ready?”
I nodded, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah. Absolutely.”
“You sure?” he asked. “Not just your body. Your head. You’ve done the work, but I’ve been around this game a long time. I can tell when a player’s carrying something off the ice.”
I stared down at my hands, trying to come up with what to say.
