Page 94 of Moms of Mayhem
The locker room had undergone a complete renovation, including an exhaust fan that made it smell less like twenty teenagers who were in the height of puberty lived here. It wasn’tgood,but it was less bad, and that counted for something.
I stood in the doorway of the locker room as the team finished gearing up, the sound of hockey tape stretching across stick blades as familiar as my own heartbeat.
“Ready, Coach?” Ty said as he walked by, Rowdy a step behind. The dog had spent so much time behind the bench, he’d become something of an unspoken mascot.
Scanning the stands one more time, I saw Emmy, my mom, and Ty’s little neighbor sitting in the last row at center ice. That I could find her so easily in the crowd only spoke of how deeply obsessed I was becoming with the woman.
I gave myself five more seconds to watch her laugh at something my mom said, then turned back to the room. The kids were geared up, some bouncing their legs like they had caffeine in their blood instead ofnerves.
Stepping into the middle of the room, I waited. They quieted, eyes on me, the weight of the moment sinking in like they could feel it just under their skin.
“All right, listen up.”
My gaze swept the group—Jace chewing on the inside of his cheek, Molly adjusting her helmet strap, Miles blinking too fast.
“We’re over halfway through the season. You’ve come further than anyone thought possible back in December. You’re playing like a team now, not just a bunch of idiots who skate fast and chirp too much. If you keep doing that, if you stick together and play smart, you’ve got a real shot at the playoffs. Not because anyone handed it to you, but because you earned it.”
A few heads nodded, and someone thumped their stick on the floor.
“But let me be clear: no cockiness. You haven’t won anything yet. You show up humble. You play clean. No fighting.” I pointed at Jace, and he gave me a little salute. “I don’t care if their forward hip checks you into the glass—take the hit and get back up. If he talks shit about your sister? Beat him to the puck and don’t let him touch it. Let the scoreboard throw the punches.”
Rowdy gave a soft woof like he agreed.
“And shoot the damn puck,” Ty added, sweeping his gaze across the room. “I want shots from every line, every angle, every chance. We don’t score if we don’t shoot. You see a lane? Take it. You see a body in front? Gothroughthem.”
I turned to Miles. “And you—contacts in?”
He nodded, looking a little green. “Yeah, Coach.”
“No clamming up halfway through the second this time,all right? Track the puck, stay square, and breathe. Trust your instincts—they know we have a hot goalie.”
He lifted his gloved fist, and I bumped it with mine.
I clapped my hands once. “You’ve got this. Let’s give this crowd something to get loud about.”
Ty whistled and banged his hand against the wall. The team let out a war cry that echoed down the tunnel. Rowdy barked once and trotted after them as they poured out toward the ice.
I let the wave pass me, heart thumping with the kind of anticipation I hadn’t expected to feel on this side of the ice. It wasn’t my game anymore, but damn did it feel good to be part of it.
“Tonight’s game is brought to you by Hudson Hardware,” the announcer said as we took the ice. “Because where else are you gonna go?”
I chuckled, looking over at Ty. “That was the best you could come up with?”
He shrugged. “They asked me for a tagline.”
With a shake of my head, I turned back to the ice. The puck dropped, and the game exploded into motion.
I’d been keeping track of the other teams we’d play this season, watching film of previous seasons. Going into it, I knew the Comets were both bigger and faster than mine. More disciplined than anyone we’d faced this season.
They played like a unit, tight formations and surgical passing that made my jaw clench and my legs itch to jump over the boards to get on the ice. It was going to be a grind, the kind of game where every shift counted and a single mistake could flip the scoreboard.
But our kids didn’t back down.
We hustled. Hit hard. Chased every puck like it was thelast shift of our lives. It was messy in moments, giving the Mayhem name a new meaning, but we held our own.
Back on the bench, things got loud.
“Yo, number 12 skates like he just learned physics yesterday,” Delgado yelled over the boards, squinting at the opposing center like he was trying to solve a riddle.
