Page 3 of Moms of Mayhem
Ty
Meet me inside, center ice. Last row.
I shook my head. That asshole knew I was on crutches and still chose the last row. Sliding my phone back in my pocket, I looked up at the rink in front of me.
It had been over a decade since I’d been back in Linwood, and the rink showed every single day of those years. Everything here was the same as I remembered, just a downtrodden version of the picture in my mind. One glance at the crutches in my hands and maybe I fit that bill too.
I squinted against the setting sun, taking in the dirty red brick walls in desperate need of a power wash. The sign above the door had several letters with lights out or broken, now readinginood nk.Massive icicles hung from the gutters along the side of the building, dangerous if one fell on a passerby below. Coach Mikaelson never would have allowed such a thing in his prime, but his death had hit us all hard.
Well, noteverythingwas the same.
With a grunt, I crossed the slippery sidewalk to the front walkway and toward a statue of three hockey players, posing together with Coach Mikaelson. Coach stood in the middle, his signature whistle around his neck, arms crossed over his chest. My heart lurched at the sight of my mentor, feeling guilty I hadn’t had the guts to come to his funeral six years ago. That phone call had hurt worse than hearing my father had passed away, and even now, I wasn’t ready to face the fact he was truly gone.
I cleared my throat, looking at the other figures frozen in time. Each wore a Mayhem jersey, like the players inside still did, looking like a moment stolen from my memory, smiling out at the parking lot.
The one on the left had hair swept back from his face and trailing his neck, a mullet like Ty had worn every day for most of his teen years and NHL career, no matter the hair trends. The grin was wrong as my best friend hardly ever smiled, but the rest was spot on.
The one on the right was a little shorter, but not bymuch. How the artist captured Mason’s mischievous streak, I wasn’t sure, but even the statue version of my brother looked like he was ready to blow up a barn or try skijoring on a whim.
I frowned at the face next to Coach, the tallest of the four. A bronze version of me smiled out at the parking lot, a smirk plastered on his cocky face. That part was right, but the rest of it… Fuck, why did they make my ears stick out like that?
A heavy sigh slipped free, and I crutched my way toward the door.Thunderstruckboomed over the speakers inside, a tune I’d heard so many times my heart pumped in time with it. Coach would have hated to see his beloved rink in disrepair, but he would have loved knowing his legacy lived on in the team’s warmup song.
I struggled with the door, more likely to throw my crutch through the glass than ask for help and finally got it open.
Despite having played professional hockey for 16 years, there was nothing like the first Mayhem game of the season. Linwood was a small town in a valley of small towns, nestled in the Gore Range. Our high school wasn’t big enough to justify its own team, so the other local towns joined in to create one. Being a Mayhem was a legacy carried with you your whole life, or at least it was at one point. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
The arena was packed, a few hundred people milling about in front of the concession and walking toward the stands. Tiny kids walked around in little black-and-green Mayhem jerseys, and parents wore a wide variety of Mayhem gear.
Tate stood behind the concession counter, serving food at a rapid pace I couldn’t keep up with. She wore her long redhair braided and hanging down over her shoulder under a backward Mayhem cap with a green hoodie showingMikaelsonacross her shoulders. It was jarring to see Coach’s daughter grown, and yet still the same. A testament to how long I’d truly been gone.
She looked my way and tipped her chin up in recognition, but didn’t draw any attention to me, which I appreciated. So far, the incognito look was working for me.
“Watch out!” someone called, and I looked down in time to see a dad scrambling to keep his toddler from running right into my knees.
I gritted my teeth, reining in any response at what could have set my recovery time back weeks. “All good.”
“I’m so sorry,” the guy said, meeting my eyes. I saw the moment he recognized me, his head jerking back a little and eyes expanding. “Hey?—”
“No,” I cut in before he could even ask. My name. For an autograph. How I was feeling. I wanted none of it.
“You’re Beckett Conway,” he continued anyway.
My crutches squeaked across the rubber floors and up the walkway to the rink as I booked it away from him. Screw Ty for insisting we meet here instead of his hardware store. If I didn’t need the key to my own house, I wouldn’t have come at all.
The temperature dropped with each step toward the ice, and my heart thundered to the beat of the song. I turned toward the stands—something I’d never done in Linwood—and looked for Ty in the crowd.
Like his message said, he sat right smack in the middle of the rink, elbows resting on his knees. He was alone in a stretch of the only empty seats in the crowd, nodding to everyone who stopped to acknowledge him. Not a hint of asmile showed, but he was as polite as I’d ever seen him be. At his feet, Rowdy lay sprawled out like he owned the place—Ty’s three-legged black lab mix with a white patch on his chest and the kind of soulful eyes that made even the grumpiest rink rats stop and scratch behind his ears. The missing back leg didn’t slow him down, but it sure added to the legend.
“You look like shit,” Ty said when I worked my way up the narrow steps to him, and Rowdy barked his agreement.
“Not as shit as that caterpillar on your upper lip.” I dropped into one of the seats next to him, sliding the crutches under our feet. “This Tom Selleck look is way worse than the mullet. You trying to actively repel people now?”
“Was working ‘til you sat your ugly mug down next to me.”
I chuckled, adjusting on the cold metal seats. My hip still hurt like a motherfucker, and I’d skipped painkillers today so I could drive up from Denver. Maybe that was a mistake.
“How are we looking this season?” I nodded toward the ice, leaning down to pet the dog I hadn’t seen in years, then hit the underside of Ty’s Mayhem hat. “Festive.”
