Page 20 of Beautiful Collide

And finally . . . Dane.

Dane:Call Coach. Now.

Dane isn’t one to message me, so I know shit is serious.

“Goddammit.”

I close the app and open my email instead.

Just as I suspected, there’s one from Coach. No question, he’s pissed.

While they haven’t technically left yet, I won’t be there before they take off. The light turns green. I flick on my turn signal, pull into a random parking lot, and park, dialing Coach’s number.

He answers on the first ring.

My back clenches in anticipation, bracing for impact.

“Where are you, Hudson?”

Shit. When he says my name like this, I feel like a schoolboy about to get scolded by my dad for coming home after curfew.

The only difference is the consequences are worse this time.

“Sorry, Coach.” I run a palm down my face. “I thought I’d be back in time.”

“Don’t give me that,” he barks, louder than anyone has a right to be on the phone. “You’re not on the plane, and we’re wheels up in two. This is a pattern with you, Wilde. Late for your first warm-up. Late for your first game. Hell, you were probably late being born.”

I was. Forty-three weeks. Mom harps about how difficult her post-term pregnancy was whenever she begs me to come back home for the holidays. Not that she needs much convincing. I love my family more than anything.

“I had a family emergency,” I try to explain, my voice tight.

“Yeah?” Coach snorts, clearly unimpressed. “What is it this time? A long-lost brother in need of a kidney? Your dog ate your skates?”

The man has never let me live down my first game.

It’s been one year. And still, he hasn’t let it go.

Will he ever take me seriously? Or am I always destined to be the class clown?

The big disappointment that he’d be happy to trade me if it weren’t for how good I am.

Since the owners are here to make money, trading me wouldn’t go easy for him. I bring in a crowd.

Which is most likely why he hates me.

“Coach, it’s not an excuse. I was needed at home. I’m on my way, but I won’t be there on time. Can you guys—”

“Absolutely not. This is the National Hockey League, Wilde. You don’t just show up when it’s convenient for you. Find your own way to the game, or don’t bother coming at all. You understand me?”

Boy, do I ever.

Before I can reply, the line goes dead.

Shit. That was rough.

Okay. Off to the rink. I need to grab something and head out.

By the time I make it to the arena, the parking lot is eerily quiet. Just as I suspected, no one is here. It’s empty. Actually, thereisone car here, most likely owned by someone who works in security.

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