Page 42 of Made for Mayhem

I glanced at her again, hoping for a glimpse of the girl who’d spun circles around me, dancing in the street.

She caught me. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Didn’t take you for a Blondie fan.”

Her mouth tilted, that almost-smile again. “The Foreigner shirt didn’t give me away? I love your Grandpa rock.”

My lip twitched, barely holding back a smile at that familiar bite. “Oh, we’re back to this then?”

“You’re still old, right, Daddy?”

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “Don’t say that.”

This time she chuckled, and it was the most genuine sound I’d heard from her all day. “I love classic rock, though. Blondie. Stevie Nicks. ZZ Top. Genesis. And Magnum P.I.–era Tom Selleck, obviously.”

I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head. “I wondered when this would come up.”

Her grin flashed quick and sharp, dimples cutting into her cheeks. “Have you kept the mustache all this time? Or did I time my arrival just right to witness it again?”

The back of my neck warmed. Damn her for remembering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, shit.” She turned toward me, one leg folding up onto the bench seat between us, eyebrows lifting beneath my hat. “You kept it, didn’t you?”

This time I looked out the window, avoiding her. “Turns out you were right. A duster is a good look for me.”

“I can’t believe I’ve missed out on three years of this.” She waved a hand at my face, then let out a slow sigh and turned back toward the window.

I flicked a glance at her, then back at the road. If she only knew how often I’d replayed our goodbye—how many times I’d wondered what might’ve happened if I hadn’t walked away.

We drove the rest of the way back to Linwood in an easy silence. Daisy knew every song on the radio and sang along, soft at first, then louder when she forgot to be self-conscious. The music seemed to smooth the sharp edges, unwinding the tight coil in her shoulders, until she resembled the woman I’d met years ago.

If I didn’t know better, I never would’ve guessed her life had just been upended.

The Welcome to Linwood sign came into view when I exited the highway, painted in cheerful blues and greens. We rolled down River Street, mountains wrapping close on every side. The storefronts lined up in mismatched colors, looking a mix of modern amenities and the remnants of a Western mining town. We didn’t have much—a grocery store, a coffee shop, a bar, a restaurant, an outfitter, and Emmy’s Pilates studio—but it was just enough.

Hudson Hardware sat at the center of it all—barn red with crisp white lettering, the double doors thrown open to the summer air. Hanging planters spilled ivy and bright yellow pansies out front, just like my dad had always done.

Linwood in summer meant the mountains turned green, the air smelled like pine and river water, and the rink stayed just cold enough to keep the heartbeat of the town going. Even nestled in the Vail Valley, we weren’t a ski town—not really. We were a hockey town.

Beckett and I had taken over coaching the Mayhem last fall, two former players trying to give these kids the same sense of home we’d found on the ice. After bringing back the town’s first state championship in over a decade, I finally felt like I belonged here. Like this was my home.

Daisy’s gaze flicked from storefront to storefront as we drove through. For a second, I wondered if she saw it the way I did—not just a town, but a sanctuary.

She leaned back against the headrest, finally looking at ease, and I couldn’t bring myself to look away.

By the time we turned onto my sister’s street, the afternoon light stretched across the neighborhood, soft and golden.

Emmy’s house sat at the end of the block—a little two-story place with light-blue siding and white trim, the porch just big enough for a rocking chair and a hanging basket. The matching detached garage sat at the end of the driveway, a basketball hoop bolted to its side. Before we even turned into the drive, the sounds of my crew carried through the open windows.

Beckett had Junie perched on his shoulders, the two of them standing at the top of the driveway.

Jace, Emmy’s son, stood next to them with a basketball in his hands.

Silas “Smash” Delgado, one of the Mayhem’s defensemen, stood under the hoop with a sly smirk on his face.

Miles “Pickles” Claussen, our goalie, was off to the side with his hands cupped around his mouth, heckling non-stop.

Molly Morreau, our star center, sat in a lawn chair like a queen, calling out shots into a red megaphone. “Okay, your turn, Juice. These two idiots are done, so we’re down to you and Junie-Girl. Spin around three times, under the leg, off the garage, into the hoop.”