Page 129 of Moms of Mayhem
Frankie leaned in like he was about to whisper some ancient wisdom. “You constipated? You’ve got the look of a man who hasn’t shat in three days.”
“Frankie,” Coach warned, and this time I did laugh.
“I’m good,” I said, forcing a breath. “Focused. Grateful. And shitting normally, thanks Frankie. Just want to make it all count.”
Tremblay narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t signed your contract extension.”
Shit.
“I know,” I said, carefully neutral. “Gavin’s looking it over. Nothing weird, just making sure it all makes sense.”
“It’s a good offer,” Coach said.
“I know.” My heart raced with every passing second. The silence was heavy for a beat.
“Jace is in the state playoffs tomorrow, right?” Coach shifted gears like he knew he wasn’t going to get more out of me on that today.
“Yeah.” I couldn’t hold back my grin. “They play tomorrow at 3 in our arena. Logan’s planning a watch party in his hotel room.”
“You’ve been watching film like it’s your job,” Frankie said. “Which it isn’t, by the way.”
Coach gave me a long look, then nodded once. “Well, tell Logan you have to miss his little soiree. Your plane leaves after our game tonight. Go see your kid play.”
My head snapped up, meeting his gaze. “You sure?”
“I have you booked back out Sunday morning to meet up with us in Edmonton,” he said. “But yeah. Go be where you need to be. Then come back to me, head in the game.”
I stood, emotions clogged in my throat. “Thank you, Coach. Really.”
He held his hand out to shake, and I put my hand in his. “Make it count, Conway.”
38
Mile High Arena pulsed with noise—skates carving into ice, pucks thudding against boards, the low hum of anticipation building to a roar. It vibrated in your chest, all adrenaline and edge, and it had my heart racing before the puck had even dropped.
State finals. We were really here.
The lower bowl was filled with far more spectators than I’d anticipated, our little town and the neighboring ones in the Vail Valley showing up in support. Stevie stood in the front row against the ice, her sons each holding up painted posters—one readMeyers on Fire!complete with a sparkly stick figure holding a flaming hockey stick. The other saidMayhem? More like Slay-hem.The “Y” in Mayhem had googly eyes glued to it, and there was a sticker of a smiling moose because why not.
Shannon and Tate stood in the row behind them, decked out in green. Luke held Harper on his shoulders, wearing little green ear protectors and clapping along to the music.
I stood just to the left of the rink entrance, hands curledaround the railing, heart thudding like I was about to step onto the ice with the Mayhem.
Ty was behind the bench tapping helmets, clapping shoulders, and getting his kids ready during their warmup skate. His expression was all business—brow furrowed, jaw set.
But I knew that look. It wasn’t pressure. It waspurpose. Coaching had lit something up in him I hadn’t seen since his early NHL days—before the injuries, before the grind wore him down. This was a different kind of fire. A steady one.
And watching my brother pour everything into these kids, watching himthrivein this next chapter of his life—it made my chest ache in the best possible way.
Ty wasn’t out there coaching to do me a favor—he was out there because he loved it.
Before I could get carried away by my emotions, I looked back out at the ice. The Mayhem looked loose, confident even. No signs of the team who’d been demolished 6-0 in their first game this season.
Jace adjusted his gloves and tilted his head toward the rafters to count ceiling lights, a pregame superstition he'd had for years.
I bit my cuticles, nausea bubbling up in my throat for my son, but he looked calm. Focused.
“I don’t like how he was carrying his stick,” Ryan said as he walked up beside me, leaning over the railing. “He’s dragging it. Lazy posture.”
