Page 95 of Made for Mayhem

Ty muttered something under his breath, and I bit back a laugh.

He looked at me. “Where are you headed?”

Stevie flipped her clipboard, scanning. “I’ve got you as a floater, until 3 p.m. when you’re headed over to the—” Her smile turned devious. “You know what? We’ll chat later.”

“That sounds ominous,” Ty said. “Should she be worried?”

“I’ve never been so excited in my life,” she sang, already walking away to talk to someone else.

I chuckled, staring after my new friend. “Is she always like this?”

“From what I can tell, yes.” He tipped his chin toward the street. “I’m gonna check on the kids before they riot.”

As he spoke, the sound of cheers erupted from the direction of the ticket counter, and I noticed a wave of people spilling through the open gates, laughter and excitement filling the air. In minutes, the street was alive with families and friends, moving toward the booths and games.

Across the way, Beckett stood in the middle of a makeshift street hockey setup—orange cones, fold-up nets, taped lines—with a group of teens in Mayhem jerseys. Beside him towered a broad-shouldered man I didn’t recognize.

Ty crossed to them, his stride steady. Beckett said something that made the teenagers groan. Ty didn’t laugh, not really; he just shook his head, lips twitching. He wasn’t a man who laughed often, except with me.

I shouldn’t have liked that distinction, but I did.

A cluster of hockey moms gathered nearby, chatting with the guys, tossing their hair, and laughing too loudly. I told myself it was none of my business, but jealousy had a way of slipping through cracks you didn’t know you had. Ty said something to one of them, and she touched his arm. My stomach gave an absurd little twist—until he glanced up.

Straight at me.

For half a heartbeat, that quiet, unreadable man was focused on me. His lips twitched—barely there, but enough to undo me.

Shannon appeared beside me, sipping an iced coffee the color of midnight. Despite the heat, she was dressed head-to-toe in black—distressed jeans, combat boots, chipped dark polish, and a faded Megadeth tee knotted at the hip.

“So, you’re doing the auction,” she said.

I chuckled. “I am?”

She rolled her eyes. “The way he looks at you is so nauseatingly sweet, I might throw up, but”—she took another long sip of coffee—“damn if it isn’t kind of adorable.”

Before I could respond, Stevie rejoined us, looking between me and Ty. “Have you decided?”

Emmy crossed the street toward us then, her Moms of Mayhem T-shirt tucked into a pair of cutoff shorts, a green baseball cap pulled low with her brown ponytail sticking out the back.

“Look at my boys,” she said. “I love seeing Ty and Beckett happy.”

“They’re wrangling teenage hockey players next to a goat pen.”

Emmy laughed. “Trust me. That’s paradise.”

I nodded toward the blond man standing beside Beckett. “Who’s the Viking?”

“That’s Mikko Laaksonen,” Stevie said. “Beckett’s old teammate.”

“Oh,” I said, curiosity pricking. “Do we like him?”

Shannon scoffed, the sound sharp enough to cut. “We tolerate him.”

Emmy didn’t miss a beat. “Someone’s protesting a little too much.”

“Please.” Shannon flicked her sunglasses higher on her nose, voice bone-dry. “If I were protesting, you’d need riot gear.”

Stevie leaned over to whisper, “Translation: she likes him.”