Page 95 of Moms of Mayhem
“What does that even mean?” Ty muttered beside me.
“No clue,” I chuckled. “But I’m stealing it.”
“Hey!” Grady shouted next, waving his glove in the air. “Tell your goalie his mom called—she said he left the ferret in the washing machine again!”
“What?” Ty asked, baffled.
“Add chirping to our skills worksheet for this week,” I said. “That kid has a C in English and it’s showing.”
The next chirp came from Molly. “Hey 17, your stick handling’s so bad, even Google Maps couldn’t help you find the puck!”
I choked on a laugh. Ty just shook his head, and the rest of the bench howled with laugher when 17 turned around and missed the pass headed his way. “We’re coaching a team of full-blown idiots.”
“Yeah.” I smiled as Jace laid out to block a shot. “But they’reouridiots.”
And somehow, we hung on.
By the end of the third period, my voice was hoarse from both coaching and laughing at the progressively worse chirping coming from our bench. We were tied 3-3 with two minutes left in the game, and Jace’s line was up next.
“Watch number 9. Don’t let him touch the puck.” I patted him on the helmet before the shift change. “Get me one more goal.”
He nodded, and I glanced up in the stands. Emmy stoodin the last row, high above the other people around her. The pom-pom on the top of her beanie bounced as she held her hands steepled over her mouth. Juniper stood right next to her, splitting her focus between the ice and copying everything Emmy did next to her, right down to the hands in front of her mouth. My mom sat next to them wearing a grin that spread from ear to ear.
“Line change!” Ty opened the door to the bench. Jace hopped over the wall as the others came off and sprinted across the ice.
Damn, seeing him explode like that, just like we’d been working on for weeks was something else. My whole body broke out in chills, my breaths coming a little quick as he raced toward the puck. His stick slid out to the side, scooping the puck out from number 9’s control, just like I’d told him.
A scramble broke out behind the net, everyone fighting for the puck. Molly snagged it, then snapped it out to where Jace waited in front of our goal.
In a split-second, he shifted directions, taking off down the ice with two defenders on his heels. He was so smooth, so calm, a surge of pride like I’d never known welled in me. I leaned forward, my hands resting on Delgado’s shoulders as I craned my neck to watch him race toward the goal.
“SHOOT!” Ty yelled, and Jace launched the puck. The goalie dropped, glove hand out, and the puck flew just over the top, crashing into the back of the net.
Jace’s arms shot in the air, and the bench screamed, slapping their sticks on the boards. I clapped my hands, then looked across the rink to see Emmy bouncing up and down, having just short of a full-blown meltdown she was screaming so loud.
My mom grinned at me, looking as proud as the day I’d been drafted to the NHL.
The music died down, and the kids met once again at center ice. The ref dropped the puck, and 20 seconds later, the final buzzer sounded.
“On the line,” Ty said, and we all filed off the bench and onto the ice. My feet were a little unsteady as I walked toward the opposing team’s coach, but it felt good to be out on the ice, even in shoes.
The two teams went down the line, fist bumping each other, and I did the same. At the end of the line was the Comets’ coach, an old friend of Coach Mikaelson.
“You know, I heard you boys were back.” He gripped my hand tight. “Didn’t know what to believe.”
I let go, and he shook Ty’s hand next. “Once a Mayhem, always a Mayhem, right Conway?”
“That’s right,” I agreed with Ty. “Great game, Coach. See you in the playoffs.”
The older guy shook his head, then waved us off, following his team off the ice.
By the time I made it to the locker room, chaos had descended. Gear was everywhere, gloves and elbow pads thrown on the floor. Someone had already spilled a Gatorade, and another kid was using a practice jersey to mop it up. Rowdy barked twice and jumped up on the bench, tail wagging like he’d scored the game-winner himself. Someone started banging on a locker in a victory drumbeat rhythm, and, of course, the rest joined in.
Jace sat on the bench, helmet off, cheeks red, hair soaked with sweat and pride.
I gave him a quick nod as I passed. “Hell of a goal.”
He grinned, flushed and lit up from the inside. “Thanks, Coach.”
