Page 89 of Beautiful Collide

The action around me has me on the edge of my seat, eyes locked on the rink.

I watch as the puck skids across the ice.

My breath lodges in my throat as it bounces from one player to the next.

Hudson is out there, moving like a predator. He skates along the blue line, his body low and his stick ready as Aiden passes it to Wolfe, who passes it back to Aiden.

Aiden then pushes the puck forward, weaving around a defender before dishing it to Hudson, who takes off like a rocket. The defenders close in on him, but he doesn’t falter. Instead, he keeps his head up, scanning the ice like he’s five steps ahead of everyone else.

With a quick deke, Hudson threads the puck through a defender’s legs and passes it back to Aiden, who’s already waiting. Aiden doesn’t even pause, sending it right back to Hudson as he cuts toward the goal.

It’s like they’re reading each other’s minds, the kind of connection you don’t see often. The crowd roars as Hudson shoulders past another defender, his speed and control making it look effortless.

Despite telling myself not to look, I can’t help it. I’m instantly drawn to him.

My gaze finds him—number 17.

His jersey clings to his broad shoulders, his movements sharp and calculated. He’s mesmerizing, and I hate that I notice.

I should be watching my brother, but instead, I’m riveted by Hudson Wilde.

He’s fast, darting down the ice like he’s untouchable. Every stride is smooth and powerful, like he was born for this.

I can’t help but admire him.

His control and precision speak of years of practice.

But it’s more than that. There’s a fire in the way he plays, a hunger that sets him apart. He doesn’t just skate; he dominates.

But it’s more than just his speed. It’s the way he sees the ice, the way he moves like he already knows how this play will end.

“He’s good,” Josie says from beside me.

“He is. Too bad he’s an ass.”

“You still hate him, I see. Despite playing nice?”

“It’s not about hating him. I’m indifferent to him.”

“Sure seems that way,” she retorts, and I turn my gaze away from the rink to look at her.

She’s smirking, her expression pure mischief. I want to argue, but I know it’ll only make her smugger.

She’s adorably cute in a sunshiny way. And perfect for my grumpy-as-all-sin brother.

I’m about to say something when the crowd around us erupts.

Needing to know what’s happening, I turn back to face the game.

Hudson has the puck. He pushes off a defender and powers toward the net.

As if my body has a mind of its own, I lean forward, placing my hands on the edge of my seat.

“Yep, just as I thought,” Josie says from beside me.

“Shh.” I shoo her off. “This has nothing to do with Hudson. I just love hockey.”

“Sure you do.”

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