Page 135 of Moms of Mayhem
Game on.
40
I couldn’t sit down. Couldn’t breathe.
“Is it normal to be sweating this much just from watching hockey?” Stevie whispered beside me, fanning herself with a program while balancing Harper on one hip. “I feel like I’m going through something. Like, emotionally.”
“You’re not,” Shannon deadpanned, eyes still locked on the ice. “But Emmy is. She’s in her final form. Behold: the Mother of Mayhem.”
“I hate that it fits,” I muttered around a mouthful of hot pretzel.
Wyatt and Reid were draped over Luke’s lap, shrieking in tandem every time the Mayhem touched the puck. Harper whipped a foam finger around, hitting everyone and totally unbothered by the chaos around her.
Shannon sat one row down next to Lori, both of them wrapped in blankets like they were just here for a cozy night out—if cozy involved full-body screaming and a mutual vendetta against the refs.
“That was offsides, you blind trout!” Lori yelled, surprisinglyloud for someone with advanced Parkinson’s and a cane tucked beside her seat. Her voice might have wobbled, but her aim was sharp as ever.
Shannon leaned over, handing her half a Twizzler. “Subtlety is dead. I love it.”
Tate was just behind us, arms folded, eyes tracking every line change with surgical precision. “The Kodiaks are rotating their first and second D-pair to try and double-team Jace’s line. It’s going to leave an opening on Molly’s side if we get a clean zone entry.”
Stevie blinked. “Tate, that meant nothing to me, but I’m so proud of you.”
Meanwhile, I was vibrating in place, chewing tiny bites of the second pretzel I didn’t remember buying and trying not to launch myself over the seats every time Jace skated past.
Every time he hit the ice, I stood. Didn’t even notice until Luke gently tugged at the hem of my jacket.
“You’re blocking Harper’s view,” he whispered.
“She’s 18 months old.”
“She’s very invested in Uncle Jace’s success.”
I snorted but didn’t sit. My heart was lodged in my throat, pulsing in sync with every pass, every shift, every damn move he made.
And then there was Beckett.
I kept looking down at the bench, like some invisible magnet was pulling my gaze there. He stood next to Ty, both shouting encouragement and calling lines, focused and locked in, and somehow still managing to check the scoreboard, the refs, and the kids’ body language all at once.
My eyes burned.
Last year I was sitting in a cold, sterile house with a husband who hadn’t looked at me like I mattered in years. Iwas exhausted, hollowed out, trying to hold myself together for Jace while slowly falling apart. I had no plan. No peace. Just a broken heart and more resentment than I knew what to do with.
Now? I sat surrounded by friends who’d become family, watching my son chase his dream. Sitting in the crowd with a woman who’d raised the man I loved, screaming just as loud as I was.
Beckett was everything I didn’t believe I deserved back then. Steady and fierce, loyal and present. Unmistakablyoursno matter where he was.
I took another shaky bite of pretzel, trying to blink back tears.
“You okay?” Stevie asked softly.
I nodded, hand pressed to my chest.
“I’m just…” I swallowed hard. “Really freaking happy.”
Shannon pointed at the ice. “I’ll be happy when that ref grows a spine and makes a fucking call.”
All heads turned toward her.
