Page 130 of Moms of Mayhem
I stiffened. The tension rolled through my shoulders like a slow wave at the sight of my ex-husband.
I wasn’t sure what I expected to feel, seeing Ryan again for the first time since I walked out of that glossyConnecticut house last summer. Dread? Anger? That slow, familiar ache of betrayal?
But none of that came.
All I felt was a sharp, focused protectiveness for Jace—fierce and blinding. The man beside me had messed with our son’s heart in ways I was still helping him recover from.
All the damage Ryan had done—every lie, every backhanded compliment, every moment Jace spent second-guessing himself because of it—rose like a tide in my chest.
There was no heartbreak left. No sadness. Just clarity.
Ryan hadn’t broken me. He’d taught me exactly what I would never allow again.
“He’s too far back in the line.” Ryan was in full-on commentator mode now—blond wavy hair perfectly coiffed, cuffed slacks too pressed, and a deep green quarter-zip that just barely nodded at team colors. He looked like a man who’d walked off a golf course and into a boardroom, not one standing next to the rink at a high school state championship. “He needs to be more aggressive, not waiting for a cue.”
I clenched my jaw and looked back toward the ice.
While Ryan listed flaws, I saw a kid who'd gotten up early every morning to skate, who'd pushed through losses and doubt, who earned his way here. A kid who didn’t need perfection—he needed support. And I wasn’t about to let anyone take that from him.
“Ryan,” I warned, but it came out softer than I meant.
“I told him he needs to get his head up,” Ryan added, tapping the metal railing like it was his own personal telestrator. “We’ve talked about this. Every video you send me, he’s looking down when he’s carrying through the neutral zone. That’s how turnovers happen.”
I saw the moment Jace noticed him in the stands. His shoulders twitched, that familiar tightening I knew all too well. Not fear. Not doubt. Just the slow clamp of trying to be too much at once. To perform, to please, to carry weight that didn’t belong to him.
Ryan cupped his hands around his mouth, yelling, “Head up, Jace! You're dragging already!”
Jace deflated, snapping the practice puck off his stick in a slapshot that went wild, nowhere near the goal.
I gripped the railing so hard my knuckles ached. “Ryan. Stop.”
“This is why we need to get him up to Canada,” Ryan said, not listening to me. “Get him some real coaching, not just your little has-been team.”
I saw red.
It wasn’t just the arrogance or the jabs—it was the way Jace’s shoulders hunched, like all the air had been sucked out of him by the person who was supposed to build him up.
Fury surged through me, hot and wild, my pulse beating so loud it blurred the crowd into background noise. My hands trembled with the need to shove Ryan back from the railing, to rip into him for every word, every years-long dig that had carved doubt into our son’s confidence. I wanted to scream. To call out everything he’d failed to be.
But I didn’t.
Because Jace would see. Everyone would see. And the last thing my kid needed on the biggest game of his life was a front-row seat to his parents going to war in the stands.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Shannon cutting through the crowd, her jaw tight, eyes locked on me like she could sense the explosion brewing.
I forced myself to breathe, then turned to Ryan, voicelow and lethal. “Say one more word like that about my son and I swear to God, you’ll regret opening your mouth.”
He smirked, the same condescending twist of his lips he’d used in every argument we’d ever had.
“And no one is taking my kid anywhere,” a voice said below me.
My breath caught, head snapping to watch Beckett walk down the tunnel toward the ice.
He strode forward in slacks and a Mayhem quarter-zip, his gait steady and sure, like he hadn’t just flown across the country to be here.
“Excuse me?” Ryan said.
But I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe when Beckett’s eyes locked on mine the second he cleared the hallway. His eyes held a giddy smile, but his body language told a different story.
