Page 73 of Made for Mayhem

“Summer between my junior and senior year of high school, we worked at⁠—”

“Slice N Spice,” we said together.

“The year it opened.”

“That’s right.” I grinned. “We ate at least three za-cos a day that year.”

“I still can’t look at them without gagging,” Shannon said. “Pizza, sure. Tacos, okay. I do not need both at one time, ever again.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, remembering how much fun I’d had that summer. It was the only summer I came to stay with Aunt Maggie without Violet, and the entire drive from Missouri to Colorado I’d been dreading a long, boring summer alone. Instead, I got a job and chopped more tomatoes than any one human should ever touch.

“This is so fun!” Stevie’s hands were clasped under her chin as she smiled at me, then at Shannon. “Who knew Shannon had friends?”

Shannon snorted. “I have friends. You’re just not one of them.”

Stevie leaned down and squeezed Shannon in a bone-crushing hug, all while Shannon swatted at her arms. A little girl with bouncy blonde curls appeared from behind them, clinging to Stevie’s thigh like a barnacle.

“And this is Harper,” Stevie said when she let go of a now-rumpled Shannon. “She’s two, and has decided Shannon is her emotional support goth.”

Shannon’s mouth quirked. “That’s right, little bestie. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Before I could respond, another voice joined the chaos. “If you’re not careful, Stevie will rope you into making friendship bracelets.”

I turned to see a tall redhead with the calmest energy of the bunch. She was stretching on a mat just beyond the front desk, her long hair braided down her back.

“That’s Tate,” Emmy said from the far side of the studio, where she was setting up a reformer. She looked put-together in green leggings and a matching cropped tank, her short brown hair tucked behind her ears. “She owns the hockey rink, and she pretends not to like us, but don’t let her fool you. Tate is just as invested in this weird little bunch.”

Tate smiled, then straightened her grey and green Mayhem Hockey Club tee. “I’m easily bribed with snacks and sarcasm.”

“Here, here,” Shannon said.

I glanced around at the group. “So, are you all moms?”

Stevie lit up. “The Moms of Mayhem.”

Shannon and Tate groaned in unison.

“We are not moms,” Shannon said, pointing back and forth between Tate and herself.

“And I still don’t know how I got roped into a group chat titled Puckin’ Exhausted,” Tate added.

Emmy grinned from her mat. “Because you love us.”

Tate stretched her legs out in front of her. “I said I tolerate you. There’s a difference.”

The four of them broke into overlapping chatter and laughter, speaking of familiarity and deep-rooted friendship. I watched them, amused and a little in awe. They didn’t make sense together—Stevie with her toddler mom chaos, Shannon looking like she’d fit better in a mosh pit than a Pilates studio, Tate giving off calm mountain-yoga energy, and Emmy glowing like the sun—and yet somehow, it worked.

I had no idea how this mismatched group of women had become friends, but as I stepped farther into the room, I wanted to be a part of it.

Following the sound of laughter, I walked past the front desk and around the half-wall that divided the lobby from the studio.

The room stretched long and narrow, softly lit by purple LEDs that glowed along the mirrors. A dozen sleek contraptions filled the space in two perfect rows—all wood and metal, each one topped with a padded carriage that slid back and forth on rails. The reformers looked like something between a high-end workout machine and a medieval torture rack.

Next to each one was a mat and a basket of rings, straps, hand weights, and other items I didn’t recognize. There wasn’t a treadmill or dumbbell in sight, and I suddenly regretted every time I’d ever thought of Pilates as “fancy stretching.”

It was quiet, organized, and terrifying.

I stepped onto the mat Emmy pointed out for me, trying not to look like the rookie who didn’t know which end was up.