Page 55 of Made for Mayhem

I frowned. “Sold what?”

She gestured around the office. The desk. The filing cabinets. The whole damn building. “The store.”

I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed. “Because it’s our name on the building. It’s our legacy.”

She shook her head. “That’s not a reason.”

“Well, it’s the only one I’ve got.”

She nodded once, accepting that—but not letting it go. “Okay. Then why not hire a manager? Someone to run it so you’re not buried in invoices and supply orders like this.”

I glanced down at the paperwork again. “Because it’s supposed to be me. The Hudson men. That’s how it’s always been.”

Emmy’s eyes softened, but her voice stayed steady. “Says who?”

I opened my mouth, then shut it again.

She leaned back in her chair. “You know this isn’t your thing, right? This was never your thing.”

I shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“Hockey was your thing,” she went on. “Hockey is your thing. I didn’t ask you to coach the Mayhem because I didn’t want to put one more thing on your shoulders—but every single day, I’m glad Beckett volunteered you. Those kids? That team? They brought you back to life.”

Her gaze swept across the office. “Here? You’re just taking care of stuff no one else wanted to deal with. And that doesn’t mean you’re required to keep doing it forever.”

I exhaled through my nose, staring past her at the window. River Street looked the same as it always had: quiet and predictable. Nothing in my life felt that way anymore.

“It feels like I’d be letting him down,” I said.

“Dad?” she asked. “Maybe it serves him right to be let down. He can have a taste of his own medicine.”

That landed harder than I liked.

She let the silence stretch. Rowdy sighed at my feet, as if he felt it too.

“My point is,” Emmy added, “you don’t owe him—or anyone—anything. You don’t have to love this just because he did. You’re allowed to want something different.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Emmy tilted her head, studying me again. “You’re carrying a lot right now, Ty. And I get why you are. I really do. But doing everything doesn’t make you more reliable—it just makes you tired.”

I picked at the edge of the desk, jaw tight. “I can handle tired.”

“I know you can,” she said. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

“Are you done?” I asked.

Emmy studied me for a second, then nodded. “For now.” She reached for a chip, then paused. “Yesterday—how did it go?”

There it was. The question she’d been circling since she walked in.

“We got joint temporary custody,” I said. “They’ll reevaluate in six weeks.”

Her brows pulled together. “So Junie’s staying?”

“For now.”

“And Daisy?” she asked. “She’s okay with that?”