Page 50 of Moms of Mayhem
And the man sitting across the ice, coaching my kid through speed drills, was exactly who I remembered. Alwayswanting the best for everyone and determined to push them until they achieved it.
This wasn’t a crush. It was a full-blownproblem, and I was signing up for a front-row seat.
Soon enough, practice was over, and Tate lifted the garage door that housed the equipment to clean off the rink for the next team. Our kids had done this enough times, they knew the drill. One by one, they grabbed sleds and shovels, circling the ice in a pattern to get it cleared.
Ty stood in the center of the rink, directing them, and Beckett left the bench. I stood up, his hoodie hanging down to just above my knees and my hands lost to the sleeves, making my way toward him.
“Cute hoodie,” he said as I stopped in front of him.
“Cute limp.” I gestured toward his leg he wasn’t standing on, and the lack of crutches in the vicinity. “Didn’t think you were this stupid.”
Beckett grinned, then shook his head. “Cleared today. Did you hear the news?”
“That you’re mine for the next eight weeks?”
The grin on his face morphed into something different, and he licked his lips, eyes moving slowly down over my body still covered in his hoodie. “Just say the word.”
I rolled my eyes and pushed his chest, but that was a mistake. He was warmer than he had any business being, and his body was as rock solid as I should have expected. With a quick move, I yanked my hand away, but not before Beckett’s eyes snapped back to mine, playfulness mixing with pure lust.
“Can’t wait to hear what you have to say about my pelvic thrusts,” Beckett said, then walked down the hallway away from me, trying his hardest not to limp. “See you Thursday.”
A weird stutter-laugh left me, and I pulled my hands inside my sleeves, only now realizing I’d forgotten to return his hoodie.
Eight weeks of Beckett being cocky and hot and entirely too close might just kill me.
I was so screwed.
Wednesday went by in a blur, and I signed the contract with the Yeti to oversee Beckett’s rehab. Frankie, the team’s head trainer, had sent over a long list of exercises and things he wanted me to watch for. I was impressed with how thorough his list was, even if he insisted on far more clamshells than I thought necessary. Maybe it was a hockey thing.
To my surprise, a deposit of $8,000 hit my bank account Thursday morning, the day we were set to begin working together. I’d texted him the night before asking him to come to the studio for a check-in before my Core Connection class, which was the slowest, easiest class at Elevation Pilates. If all went well, then he could stay for class and try a modified version of it.
Beckett had picked up Jace to skate before school the last two mornings, and they practiced together with my brother last night at the rink. Despite the way he’d so quickly woven himself into my life, I’d done my best to avoid him yesterday.
Did that make me a chicken shit? Absolutely. But I didn’t know how else to survive this growing attraction to Beckett other than avoid him like I avoid folding laundry—I knew it was there and it stressed me out, so I pretended it didn’t exist.
Like the laundry, I knew it would get to a point when itcouldn’t be avoided any longer, and the balance of my bank account staring back at me was a reminder that today was the day.
I paced the back of the studio, bouncing lightly on my feet as I checked the clock for the thousandth time this morning. I tugged the hem of my shirt down, then up again, then smoothed it flat like it was personally responsible for my emotional stability. The front door opened and closed, and I looked up at the entrance, finding Shannon staring back at me in surprise.
“You’re early.” She peeled off her coat and hung it on the hooks beneath the neonElevation Pilatessign. “Did I know you were opening this morning?”
“New routine.”
I pulled at the sleeves of my plum tee, hooked my fingers through the thumb holes, then immediately pulled them out again to rub my palms down the front of my leggings. This shirt was form-fitting across my chest, stopping just above the waistband of my matching leggings. I had on white grip socks that came just above my ankle bones, then black slides I could ditch if I needed to demonstrate something to my class.
“How was your night?”
“Fine?” Shannon studied me, then wiggled the computer mouse to wake up our system. “I hate even asking this, because it’ll seem like I care, but are you good? You seem weird.”
I stopped fidgeting, ready to dismiss her comment when movement outside caught my attention. Beckett walked down the sidewalk toward the studio in black shorts despite the snow on the ground, a hoodie that looked a lot like the one hanging on my bathroom door, and a backward hat over his brown shaggy hair. He was a little scruffier thismorning, like maybe he’d woken up late and hadn’t had time to clean up his beard. Which was interesting, since he was right on time to pick up my kid before the sun was up.
Realizing my mouth hung slightly open, I snapped it shut and straightened my spine.
Shannon looked from me to Beckett and back, her eyes squinting. “You didn’t.”
“I did nothing.” I cut my hand through the air. “Well, I agreed to oversee his PT progress, and I think they want him to take some classes here. But that’s all I did.”
She sighed long and deep, then began fiddling with her phone as the front door opened and Beckett walked inside. The moment our eyes met, I felt transparent, like he could see exactly why I’d been avoiding him.
