Page 242 of Beautiful Collide

“You okay?” Molly asks.

“Fine,” I lie.

While I know I should tell her the truth—that my wrist feels like someone poured acid on it—I don’t. I pretend I’m okay.Healing beautifully.

I’m full of shit.

Molly sits on the bench a few feet away, bundled in one of my hoodies.

She looks adorable as always, drinking a steaming hot cup of coffee.

As cute as she is, she’s a drill sergeant. She’s watching me like a hawk, her brows furrowed. She’s trying to pretend she’s not worried.

She’s a bad liar. I’m not.

“You sure about this?” she asks, her voice soft but edged with concern.

“Yeah,” I lie, pulling on my gloves. The motion sends a fresh wave of pain up my arm, but I grit my teeth and keep going. “Just need to see where I’m at.”

Molly doesn’t look convinced. “Hudson—”

“I’m fine. I need to do this.”

Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue.

She knows better than to try.

The moment I step onto the ice, I feel better.

This is my sanctuary.

When I’m here, everything fades away.

But today, even the ice can’t quiet my brain.

I grip my stick and push off.

The first few strides feel good. But when I try to stickhandle, my left arm refuses to cooperate.

The puck slips away, skittering toward the boards, and I curse under my breath.

“Fuck.”

“Take it easy,” Molly calls from the bench.

I ignore her, skating after the puck and gripping my stick tighter.

The motion sends a searing pain through my arm.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

My grip falters, the stick slipping in my hands.

This isn’t just bad. This is fucked.

I keep going, though.

I refuse to admit defeat.

---