Page 1 of Meant for Mayhem

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Fatherhood had taught me a lot over the last few months: how to change a diaper, how to survive on too-little sleep, and when it came to the sound of a baby crying, my hearing was far better than I ever realized.

Or maybe it was worse, considering I was pretty sure this one was a phantom cry. Living in a constant state of exhaustion and anxiety was to blame.

My head snapped up to the stands, searching for the sound. I shouldn’t have been able to hear over the crack of sticks on ice and roaring fans at the crowded arena. And yet, I couldn’t focus on anything but looking for my daughter.

Except she wasn’t here.

Tonight was the Denver Yeti’s season opener, and an away game. Logically, I knew it wasn’t Leena. But my brain was currently in a screw logic mood.

I kept looking for her, searching for the full-body explosion of too many emotions that accompanied her cries.

“Mikko!” someone shouted from behind me.

My attention snapped back to the ice, only to watch the Chicago Storm’s right winger blow right by me, headed for the net. My teammate Logan raced to intercept the puck, but that was my job, not his.

“What the hell, man?” he shouted when he flew by me, but it was too little, too late. Their winger squared up against our goalie, Nate Kozak, then sank the puck over his glove hand, right into the net.

The goal buzzer sounded, and my ears rang.

Fuck.

I came off the ice with the line change, frustration boiling under my skin. Even without looking at him, I could feel Coach’s eyes on me. And who could blame him?

I’d be glaring at the guy who missed coverage all preseason, too.

“Maybe we should go back to Pixie Sticks between periods, yeah?” Logan said as he walked next to me down the tunnel after the period ended. “Do you need a little orange slice pick-me-up?”

“Pixie Sticks?” Kozak said. “Are you 12?”

“Humor-wise? Yes.” Logan grinned, then squeezed my shoulder and walked into the locker room.

I grunted because I heard what he wasn’t saying.

I’d fucked up.

I’d let them down.

I was letting everyone down today.

The image of Leena crying stuck in my head, sobbing in my Mom’s arms when I’d left for the plane last night. I’d tried calling Mom before the game, but she hadn’t answered—not that that was unusual.

Guilt ate at me, but I knew the likelihood she was still crying 24 hours later was practically impossible. But then again, if someone had told me three months ago that I was a dad, I’d have said that was impossible too.

I sat down at my locker, every worst-case scenario playing out in my head.

What if Leena was so upset she tried to climb out of her crib, and Mom couldn’t get there fast enough?

Or worse, what if something happened to Mom, and she wasn’t able to get to Leena at all?

She’d been in a wheelchair for over 25 years, and my penthouse was plenty accessible to her, but there were so many factors at play here, so many things out of my control, and I was a plane-ride away from being able to help them.

I tugged at my neckline, my equipment suffocating me.

“Laaksonen!” Coach Tremblay stormed into the locker room. “What was that?”

I stared at my skates, sweat dripping off my brow and onto the rubber mats lining the Storm’s visiting locker room. My jaw ticked, but words were lost to me. Because what was that?