Page 53 of Beautiful Collide

My grin fades. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She turns to Mason, gesturing toward him with her drink. “I mean, Mason here was tight. He didn’t let one puck past him. On the other hand, you are lucky my brother’s got your back, and Slate is so skilled.”

“Did you not see my goal?” I ask, sliding up beside her. “Pretty sure they’ll be talking about it for weeks.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, unimpressed. “You mean the one that bounced off your shin guard? Real skill there, Wilde.”

I grin, unbothered. “Hey, a goal’s a goal.”

She snorts, turning back to her drink. “If you say so.”

“Don’t be jealous, Hex,” I tease, leaning closer so only she can hear. “It’s not a good look on you.”

She whips her head around, narrowing her eyes. “Jealous? Of what? Watching you stumble around the ice like a baby deer? Please.”

My grin falters for a split second, but I recover quickly. “Stumble? I had three assists tonight, Sinclair. That’s hardly stumbling.”

“Oh, congratulations,” she says, her tone dripping with mockery. “Maybe next time you’ll even manage to score.”

The dig lands harder than I expect, and before I can stop myself, I fire back. “Maybe next time you’ll manage to do something other than hang around the rink like some kind of . . . glorified babysitter.”

Her eyes widen, and I immediately regret the words.

“Molly, I didn’t mean—”

“Save it.” She cuts me off, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. “You’re too busy being the team’s golden boy to even realize how gross you are.”

“Gross?” I repeat, my voice rising.

“Yes,” she says, voice dripping with ice. “You strut around like you’re God’s gift to hockey and women, and it’s disgusting.”

Her words hit me like a slap. For a second, I’m too stunned to respond. Then anger flares, hot and unrelenting.

“Fine,” I snap. “If you think I’m such a player, maybe I should act like it.”

She blinks, her expression flickering with something I can’t quite place. But before she can respond, I turn on my heel and make my way back to the team.

“Ladies,” I say, sliding up beside Mason and gesturing toward a group of blonde fans practically drooling over us. “Why don’t you join us for a drink?”

The blondes giggle and eagerly follow, and within minutes, we’re all seated at a table with rounds of tequila shots being poured.

“You’re in a mood,” Mason says, raising an eyebrow at me as he downs his shot.

“Just celebrating,” I reply, forcing a grin.

But my eyes keep darting back to the bar, where Molly still stands. Her gaze flicks to our table for a moment before she turns away, her jaw tight.

Good. Let her be annoyed. Let her see what it feels like to be brushed off, dismissed, and ignored.

The night spirals quickly from there. The blondes cling to us, laughing too loudly at every joke Mason makes, and I’m leaning into it hard, playing the part of the charming playboy Molly accused me of being even though I couldn’t be more disinterested in any of them.

But the more I play it up, the worse I feel. The tequila burns, but it doesn’t dull the nagging ache in my chest.

And then it happens.

Molly storms across the room, her expression stormy as hell. She grabs my arm, pushing me back with more strength than I thought she had.

“Move,” she snaps, her voice low but furious, though she went out of her way to get in my way.

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