Page 44 of Beautiful Collide

I sit frozen, watching as she bounces out of her car with an extra pep in her step. She leans back in, grabs her bag, and starts walking.

I roll down my window. “Seriously, Hex?”

She doesn’t seem to hear me. More likely, she’s ignoring me.

I take my foot off the brake and pull forward, looking for another spot. But, as I’d already guessed, most of the close spaces are taken. After driving all the way to the end of the aisle, I finally find an open spot and take it.

I dash out of the car, rushing to make it inside.

Molly is about twenty feet ahead of me. If I sprint, she can let me in, and I won’t have to hunt for my key card.

She’s fumbling with her bag as she approaches the players’ entrance, pulling out her badge to unlock the door.

As she swings it open, I shout, “Hold the door for me!”

Still far away, I know full well I have no idea where my card is.

“Sorry, I’m in a rush,” she shouts back, letting the door close behind her.

My jaw drops. Is this girl for real?

Jogging to the door, I grab the handle, but it’s locked. No surprise there.

Where is my key card?

I rummage through my stuff and—shockingly—find nothing. I bang on the door.

No response.

I bang again.

Still nothing.

The back door usually has a guard who can let me in, but with my luck, no one is stationed there today.

My life is a comedy of errors. Why did I think the start of the season would be any different?

It’s always like this.

Ever since my first day with Hex.

I sigh. Of course, this is how things would start. It’s only the first week of the season, and I’m already screwing up. It’s her fault. It always is. And now I have to find another way inside.

I start walking around the building, hoping to bump into someone who can let me in. The place is eerily quiet for this time of day. What the hell is going on?

I check every door I pass, but they’re all locked—and not staffed.

By the time someone shows up, I’ll officially be late. And I already know how Coach will react.

In the opening game of the season, Wolfe missed a critical pass during the third period against the Renegades.

A textbook one-timer setup—perfectly placed by me, obviously, which made the miss even worse.

Coach Roberts didn’t even wait for the play to finish before pacing behind the bench, his jaw clenching so hard I thought he might crack a tooth.

“Wolfe,” he bellowed the second Wolfe skated back to the bench. The poor guy hadn’t even caught his breath yet. “What the hell was that?”

“Sorry, Coach,” Wolfe mumbled, barely audible over the crowd noise. “I didn’t see it in time—”

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