Page 81 of Beautiful Collide

I agreed to be on my best behavior, but that doesn’t mean I have to make it easy on him.

This is a loophole I can live in. I won’t break the rules, but I can bend the hell out of them.

Maybe I can’t argue with him in public, but I can goad him.

Hudson skates past the bench, his focus seemingly on the puck as the Saints set up for a power play. He doesn’t even glance my way, but as he coasts by, his glove comes up just enough for me to catch it.

My jaw drops.

No. That’s not what I think it is. It’s hard to tell because of the thickness of the glove, but it looks like one of his fingers is sticking up more than the others.

Oh, he wouldn’t. Except, of course, he would.

That has got to be his middle finger.

The bastard just discreetly gave me the middle finger.

I blink, caught between shock and admiration for how brazen he is.

If only I had thought of that. Sure, he probably wouldn’t see it because he’s supposed to be playing, but obviously, since he just did it to me, maybe he would have.

Nope. You’re better than cheap moves like that.

Anyway, this might mean I win. Someone had to have seen it. I whip my head toward where Dane is skating. Surely, he saw that, right?

I can’t catch a break. Unlike Hudson, he’s too engrossed in the game.

I turn my head to Josie. Maybe she saw it. She can vouch for me.

No luck there either.

She’s watching my brother like the lovesick fool she is, totally oblivious.

Cassidy?

Unless the picture she’s currently taking is of Hudson, which it’s not, she doesn’t have the evidence I need.

I’m alone in my outrage, which makes it burn hotter. I clench my fists, my nails biting into my palms.

The nerve. The audacity.

The pure, unfiltered chaos this man brings into my life with every breath he takes.

He’s totally going to find a way to be smug about this later.

The worst part is I have to bite my tongue when he does. The bet has officially become the most infuriating thing I’ve ever agreed to.

I will not be the one to lose the bet.

The man is diabolical.

He knew exactly what he was doing, and I can practically feel him smirking through the glass.

By the time the Saints win in overtime, I’m about ready to explode. The moment the buzzer sounds, I slip past the throng of celebrating fans and head for the hallway near the locker rooms.

I need air. Not that stale arena air full of sweat and melted ice, but air where Hudson isn’t occupying my thoughts like an uninvited guest who refuses to leave.

Since the guys aren’t out yet, I pace back and forth, my heels clicking against the floor. Despite the door being closed, I can still hear the muffled cheers of the team inside.

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