Page 173 of Beautiful Collide

Hudson:Good luck with that. I’m not telling you anything.

Aiden:He’s hiding something.

Mason:100%. I’m adding this to the list of Hudson Mysteries.

Dane:We’ll find out. We always do.

Hudson:Keep dreaming, boys.

Mason:Someone’s butt hurt.

Hudson:I’m muting this chat.

Aiden:?? Guilty as hell.

Mason:This isn’t over.

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Hudson

The ice feels like home.It’s where I’m myself.

For me, it’s not about the fans. It’s the game.

The sound of the puck sliding across the ice.

The scrape of blades as I skate.

The way everything disappears.

It’s my therapy.

Especially when I’m just messing around with the guys, running drills.

We just laugh and fuck with each other.

There’s no pressure today. No Coach barking orders at us. Just a few friends having a good time.

Mason’s working on some sort of save that he’s convinced will “blow everyone’s mind” next season, but from where I’m standing, it mostly makes him look like a toddler learning how to walk.A drunk one at that.

I line up a puck at center ice, aiming for the top left corner of the net. I’m in the zone, my stick slicing the air as I prepare to take the shot, but then . . .

My attention drifts.

It’s her.

She’s up there, watching from the coaching box like she’s working, even though today’s session isn’t remotely official, so she doesn’t really need to be here.

Unless Dane asked her to take notes on Mason’s “walking on ice” performance, which is doubtful, her presence is definitely a surprise.

Molly Sinclair is dressed casually today in jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt. Her legs are crossed, and she has her tablet balanced on her lap. She looks like she’s analyzing every move we make, but I know better.

She’s not working. She doesn’t need to be here.

She’s here for me.

Watching me.

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