Page 15 of Moms of Mayhem
That gave me pause. The Mayhem Hockey Club under Coach Mikaelsons’s leadership had been a tight-run ship, demanding the most from its players both on the ice and in the classroom. Hell, if I hadn’t been required to attend in order to play, my high school years would have looked a lot like this.
“Does your mom care?” I asked, hedging my bets.
Jace whipped his last shot into the net, then turned to look at me. “Why do you care?”
I shrugged, pushing the garage door opener in my pocket and then the remote start on my truck. “I don’t. But she probably will.”
“You know my mom?” he asked, opening the shed door and pulling out a backpack. He dropped to a squat just above the ice, unlacing his skates in a move that I wasn’t sure my old and broken body would allow, even healed. Once they were off and a pair of unlaced Timberlands were on his feet, he stored the gloves, stick, and skates in the shed, then padlocked it once more. “Why has she never mentioned you before last night?”
Well, that cut in an unexpected way, but Emmy’s and my relationship was non-existent these days. I breathed in the crisp mountain air, the smell of pine overwhelming me with its sense of familiarity and comfort even though it had beenyears since I’d been home. “Small town, kid. We all know everybody. But it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her.”
“That’s right.” Jace snapped his fingers, then hurried past me toward the garage. He spun around and stared at me with a hard set to his jaw. “Because you’re a washed-up has-been who abandoned everyone you ever cared about.NowI remember.”
Of all the cheap shots this kid had taken at me, that one hurt, and he knew it would. Maybe he expected me to leave, to call the Sheriff like I’d threatened, to turn my back on this grumpy, smart-mouthed kid. From what I’d seen on Friday, he had a dad who didn’t show up, and I knew how shitty that felt. Like it was easier to keep everyone at a distance so they couldn’t hurt you like that again.
But he also didn’tknowme. He didn’t understand that, like him, I refused to give up. Every single newscast, especially those led by Jace’s daddy dearest, said I was done. Cooked. Finished. A washed-up has-been. But I wasn’t done until I said I was done, and I’d do anything to prove it.
“Get in the truck,” I said, limping my way into the garage with these stupid crutches.
The door slammed as he climbed into the cab, but I’d take it.
Beckett: 1.
Jace: 0.
7
“Order for Emmy!” the barista shouted, then pushed a cardboard tray of drinks across the counter toward me. A little brown box sat next to it with a handful of pastries and breakfast wraps, ready to treat my staff to a Monday morning pick-me-up. After Friday’s game and then the silent treatment Jace had given me for two days, I needed it.
“Thanks, Luca.” The barista raised his chin as I reached for my order. “God, I’m starving.”
“Yeah.” Luca’s tongue peeked out to lick the corner of his lip as his eyes raked over my body, rubbing his hands together like some cartoon villain. Tattoos covered his hands and forearms, giving off adon’t fuck with mevibe that clashed spectacularly with his fuckboy haircut and overall personality. “You ever get tired of carrying all that weight by yourself? You know, your drinks, your business, that perfect ass? Let me take care of you sometime. I can hold it for you.”
I gave him a flat look. “Hard pass. I’d rather get a root canal from a raccoon.”
Luca laughed, unbothered, then swooned with a hand tohis chest. “What can I say? I love it when you bust my balls. It’ll make it that much sweeter when you finally admit you feel this connection.”
“The only thing I feel is secondhand embarrassment.” I grabbed the drink carrier and the box of food, then balanced my large, iced coffee on top with surgical precision. “You’re exhausting.”
“Can’t win on a shot you never take.”
“The last man who said that gave me a wedding ring and a big fat therapy bill,” I muttered. “I'm in my post-men, post-pick-me, Pilates era. You're about 15 years too late.”
He grinned. “Need me to help you carry those down the street?”
“If I give you an inch, you’ll take a mile.”
“Oh, I can give you a lot more than an inch?—”
“Gross!” I barked, shouldering open the door with my hip. “I’m telling your mother when she comes in for class this afternoon.”
“Do it!” he called after me through the jingle of the bell. “She loves you too, so she’ll be thrilled about this love affair!”
If my hands hadn’t been full to bursting, I would’ve flipped him off. Instead, I rolled my eyes, muttering to myself as I stalked toward the studio.
Linwood was a picturesque mountain village, doing its best to preserve the town’s history rich with Wild West culture. River Street was the main business core, home to our local sporting goods outfitter, hardware store, grocery, a restaurant, a bar, the coffee shop, and then my newest addition: a Pilates studio. Each building on the strip was painted a different color, most with an apartment above, and it gave the whole thing a very Norman Rockwell feel.
After living in suburban and modern Connecticut for adecade, it was both strange and wonderful to be back in my little hometown.
