Page 6 of Moms of Mayhem
My brother shook his head, then walked down the aisle, Rowdy hopping along at his heels.
The game moved on, and I tried to remember the names of the other players on the Mayhem, but this was his first season with this team, and I’d been too busy moving and setting up Elevation Pilates, my studio in town, to attend as many practices as I usually would have.
The Bruins had a shot on goal, and our goalie dropped, blocking the puck with his stick. Beckett let out a long whistle at the save, and I glanced his way.
It had been years since I’d thought seriously about Beckett Conway, but the moment I saw him, it hit me like a freight train of memories and pheromones.
Damn.
He was even more gorgeous than I remembered—bigger now, broader in the shoulders, all adult muscle and quiet confidence, but still carrying that same effortless magnetism that used to make every girl in town lose her mind.
We’d grown up under the same roof more weekends than not, with him raiding our fridge and roughhousing in the yard with my brother. He left for Juniors at 16 and never looked back. The last time we were in the same room, I had braces and a bad attitude, and he was already halfway to becoming the town’s collective heartbreak.
Now he looked like the universe had given him an upgrade just to mess with me.
The scruffy dark beard clinging to his jaw had no business being that hot—messy enough to look effortless, trimmed just enough to know he cared. His Denver Yetis hat was pulled low over his brow, but I didn’t need to see his eyes to remember their exact shade. Unfairly blue, like the brightest summer day, warming you to the core. They used to sparkle when he laughed, and Ihatedthat I still remembered the sound.
Worse, I was suddenly hyper-aware of every nerve ending I had.
I didn’t want to notice. Didn’t want to feel anything.
But there he was, real, magnetic, and hotter than sin, and my lungs forgot how to work.
My brother didn’t talk about Beckett much—then again, my brother didn’t talk much at all—but I knew the space Beckett had let stretch between them hurt more than he let on. And honestly, that was enough for me.
Beckett Conway was a selfish, self-absorbed hotheadwho clearly cared more about his precious NHL dreams than the people he’d left behind.
Sure, he was hot. Like,infuriatinglyhot. But I was stubborn and petty, and more than capable of holding a grudge. I had a whole list of reasons to dislike him—number one being the fact that he stole my parking spot and did it with the smug confidence of a man who was sure he deservedallthe good things.
By the time Ty got back with a hot pretzel and a Diet Coke, Jace was back on the ice. I shot to my feet again, this time clutching the pretzel and shoving chunks into my mouth like a rabid chipmunk.
“What’d I miss?” Ty took the seat between Beckett and I again and flipped his hat around backward, adjusting it several times in what I knew was a nervous tick. Rowdy settled between his legs, curling up like he had a thousand times.
“Our goalie is quick,” Beckett answered. “Reflexes are great, but his glove hand was nowhere near where it needed to be.”
Ty hummed, and I chewed, savoring the salty, buttery pretzel. Tate made the best ones in town—it was a shame all she ran was a bougie concession stand and not a restaurant. She’d make a killing.
Jace got the puck again, and I clutched the pretzel to my chest, swallowing as fast as I could. He raced down the ice; the countless hours he spent conditioning with Ty this summer showing in how fast he moved. I bounced in place, my calves screaming after today’s Pilates classes, but things like physical pain didn’t register in the delirious state I resided in while watching my kid play.
“She always like this?” Beckett asked.
My head snapped his way, and if this had been any pretzel but Tate’s, I would have chucked it at his head. My mouth was too full to shoot off the sassy retort I had planned, then the sound of bodies slamming against the glass ricocheted through the arena.
I sucked in a breath, damn near choking on the last of the pretzel in my mouth as I looked back toward the ice. Jace was on his knees, scrambling to get back up, and the Bruins had the puck again.
“Get up, get up,” I mumbled, my eyes trained on my son, reading every furious line of his body. “Keep it together, bud.”
Before Jace made it down the ice, the buzzer sounded, and the Bruins scored.
“Shit,” Beckett said, and I sagged back onto the bench. The shift changed and Jace came off the ice again, except this time he knocked the water bottle off the bench, sending it flying.
“He’s going to lose it,” I said to no one, dropping my head in my hands, dread coursing through me.
Even from across the rink and separated by layers of glass, I could feel the frustration pouring off my kid in waves. He’d always had a temper, but every time Ryan broke a promise to him, it got worse. Unfortunately, we had a lot of experience with unfulfilled promises.
I pushed my head down between my knees, unable to watch the rest of the game, knowing how this would go.
“He’s back on,” Ty said.
