Page 59 of Beautiful Collide

Not much, but enough that I’m still sitting here.

Which is saying something, considering the fact that I’m at a condom company endorsement meeting.

It’s not that I’m not one for safe sex—of course I am—but to be the face . . . ? Yeah, no.

I would never be able to face my mother again.

“Now, Hudson,” one of the suits says, leaning forward with a grin that makes my skin crawl. “Your . . . reputation precedes you.”

I glance at Molly, who raises an eyebrow but stays silent.And here it goes.

The moment they pitch me as the party boy everyone thinks I am because I’ve never wanted to correct anyone.

“Right,” I say, forcing a smile. “Happy to hear that.”

“And that’s exactly why we want you to be the face of our new campaign,” the suit continues. “You’re young, you’re handsome, and you’re known for being a bit of a . . . ladies’ man.”

Despite knowing this was coming, my jaw still tightens. Yet, I manage to keep my expression neutral. This again.

“We’re thinking something edgy,” another suit chimes in. “Like ‘Hudson Wilde: Scoring on and off the ice.’”

I blink, stunned into silence. Did he actually just say that? Molly shifts beside me, her posture stiffening. Yeah, he did.

“And,” the first suit adds, “we’d like to lean into your ‘bad boy’ image. Maybe even some tongue-in-cheek ads about—”

“No,” Molly says abruptly.

The entire room turns to look at her, including me.

“Excuse me?” one of the suits says, confused.

“I said no,” Molly repeats, her voice calm but firm. “Hudson is an athlete, not a punchline. If you want him to represent your brand, you’ll focus on his accomplishments on the ice, not some fabricated reputation you’re trying to exploit.”

The room goes silent.

A pin could drop, and you’d hear it right now.

I stare at her, shocked. Molly Sinclair, the woman who has made it her life’s mission to torment me, is . . . defending me?

If I could discreetly pinch myself right now, I would, but since I can’t, I sit motionless and stunned instead.

“Ms. Sinclair,” one of the suits begins, his tone condescending, “we believe this campaign is exactly what Hudson’s image needs.”

“No,” she says again, her eyes narrowing. “What Hudson needs is to be taken seriously. He’s not some one-dimensional stereotype you can slap on a billboard. He’s an athlete. And a damn good one at that.”

My chest tightens at her words. Damn. Who knew Molly had it in her to defend me like this? I’ve always known she’s smart and passionate . . . but fuck.

The suits exchange uneasy glances, clearly unsure of how to respond.

Molly leans back in her chair, crossing her legs and fixing them with a pointed stare. “If you’re not interested in showcasing Hudson’s talent and professionalism, then we’re not interested in this deal. Thank you for your time.”

She stands, grabs her bag, and turns to me. “Hudson, let’s go.”

I blink, still processing what just happened, but her tone leaves no room for argument. I follow her out of the conference room, trying to keep up with her long, determined strides.

We step outside into the cool October air, and she spins on her heel to face me, her expression unreadable. It takes me a second to shake myself out of the stupor I’m in, and when I do finally come to, I grin at her while nodding.

“Don’t say it,” she warns, holding up a hand.

---