Page 101 of Beautiful Collide

Ineedto.

I change quickly, throwing my gear on the floor for the equipment manager to figure out. Once I’m back in my street clothes, I head out in search of her.

I move through the maze of the practice arena, checking every spot I can think of.

Weight room? Empty.

Seating area? Dead quiet.

I make my way through the halls that wind behind the rink, the sound of my footsteps bouncing off the concrete walls.

Each corner I turn, I expect to see her, but she’s nowhere to be found.

It’s ridiculous how much my chest tightens with every empty hallway.

The last time I saw her, she looked . . . off. Not herself.

And something about that pulls at me.

I stop in my tracks when I find her, silent as I take in the sight of her. She’s standing near the far wall, one hand braced against it like she’s holding herself steady.

Her hair, usually tucked neatly out of her face, falls loose around her shoulders.

The sleeves of her Saints hoodie are rolled up like she’s trying to fight off a wave of nerves.

There’s tension in her frame. Her shoulders tight, her breathing just a little too quick.

Yet, even now, something about her stops me cold. Her sharp edges and soft curves all tangled into one.

We’re on the far side of the arena, farthest from the locker room. Right in front of a closet . . .like the one we first met in.

Molly looks like she’s caught somewhere between here and somewhere else entirely.

Her face is pale, her usual confidence nowhere to be seen. She’s fidgeting, her fingers twisting together in a way that makes her look . . . small. Vulnerable.

Her gaze darts around.

There’s almost panic in her eyes.

“Hey,” I say softly, stepping closer to where she is. “You okay?”

I move carefully, like I’m approaching a skittish animal—slow and steady, trying not to make any sudden movements.

Molly’s breath hitches, and I realize I scared her. Something I seem to do a lot of, though not on purpose.

And every single time, it leaves this hollow, twisting feeling in my gut. Like I’m the reason she’s looking over her shoulder, and I hate it.

I hate that I’m a part of the fear she’s carrying.

I wonder what’s upset her, and then I notice she’s staring at the closet door. Is it the memory of the panic attacks? I have no business wondering, but I do.

I don’t know why I’m always curious when it comes to Molly Sinclair, but I am.

Fucking sue me.

Of course, I remember all the times I’ve seen her like this, but I figured it got better. Obviously, it hasn’t. In fact, it feels worse. Bigger.

I’ve spent so many years avoiding her, trying my damnedest not to pay attention, but maybe the panic attacks never went away.

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