Chapter 20 #2
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.”
“I don’t like any hockey players,” Shannon said, but the quick glance she shot across the street betrayed her.
The three of them exchanged a look that passed so fast I almost missed it—part amusement, part secret, all confirmation that I’d just stepped into something above my current level of Linwood gossip clearance.
Before I could ask more, Tate emerged from behind the main stage, her red hair piled into a bun, sunglasses on top of her head.
“Has anyone heard from Mason?” she asked, glancing over at the hockey team. “He was supposed to be here an hour ago.”
Stevie shrugged. “Maybe he’s late.”
“He’s never late,” Tate said, frowning. “Not when there’s an audience.”
“Maybe he’s planning another one of his big gestures,” Shannon said dryly. “You know, something subtle.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Tate warned.
Before anyone could comment, two uniformed officers started walking down the street, waving people to the sidewalks.
“Make way! Clear the road! The parade starts in ten minutes!”
Stevie turned to me, eyes wide. “Wait, you planned a parade?”
I frowned. “Absolutely not. I barely survived getting insurance for the bounce houses.”
And then came the distant sound of drums.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tate muttered as the crowd gathered in excited rows on either side of the street.
Minutes later, the Linwood High marching band rounded the corner, uniforms gleaming, trumpets blaring. The drum line hit a cadence so loud it rattled the vendor tents. The crowd erupted in cheers, clapping along.
“Holy shit,” Stevie whispered, delighted.
Behind the band came a line of classic cars—sports cars, vintage trucks, even a hot-pink Cadillac with Linwood Loves Mayhem painted across the side. But my favorite was the bike parade, carrying a swarm of kids pedaling with streamers and flags, honking little horns.
Right in the middle of it all was Junie, smiling bright. Jace rode along next to her like a protective big brother.
Her little blue bike sparkled with tinsel, and Rowdy sat in a basket on the back of Jace’s bike wearing a sign that said Mayhem’s Smallest Mascot. She waved and smiled like this was the best day of her life, and the lump in my throat hit fast and hard.
“Okay,” I whispered. “That’s adorable.”
Emmy nudged my shoulder with hers. “She’s really something else, Daisy. Look at her thriving. You’re doing a great job.”
Just as tears welled in my eyes at her kind words, the cheers grew louder and a fire truck turned onto River Street, lights flashing. People whooped and clapped until someone shouted, “Is that Mason Conway?”
And sure enough, there he was.
Mason Conway walked behind the firetruck and was impossible to miss—scruffy dark beard, snapback hat turned backward, dark hair sticking out just enough to look like he hadn’t tried too hard.
His blue eyes sparkled with that now familiar Conway confidence, but told me he’d never met a spotlight he didn’t like.
A vintage black-and-green Mayhem jersey clung to his broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, paired with athletic shorts and the easy swagger of a man who lived for game day, on or off the ice.
Still on the active roster for the Dallas Outlaws, Mason carried himself like someone used to being watched.
He lifted the microphone, voice rich and playful as he started singing My Girl.
Every step down River Street felt deliberate, a wink to the crowd, a twirl for his mom Lori filming from the curb with the knitting club.
But when his gaze finally locked on Tate, everything else seemed to fade. His grin widened, mischievous and just a little too confident the closer he came.
“Don’t you dare,” Tate muttered, already shaking her head.
“Oh, he’s daring,” Shannon said, practically gleeful, the first hint of a smile tugging at her dark-painted lips.
Mason crossed the last few steps to her, dropped smoothly to one knee, and extended his free hand. “Tate. My sweet yam. My little spud muffin. Marry me?”