Page 92 of The Beautiful Collision
He was there.
He saw the cracks in my facade.
He goaded me about the bet at practice, after games, and in texts.
He participated in the fucking thing.
But even with all that, he doesn’t let me off the hook.
“I was a dick for not killing the bet, Maine,” he admits, his voice rough with self-reproach. “Treating her like some prize to be won, like making someone fall for you is a fucking game.” He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I recognize as his own shame response. “But that’s not the point.”
He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze intense and unyielding. He forces me to meet his eyes, to see beyond the walls of my self-pity.
“Maya’s entire life has taught her that her feelings are a weapon that people will use against her. Sophie told me some of it—her family, the way they treated her, the way they cut her off for not playing by their rules. Her family proved to her that love is conditional, that showing weakness is a mistake.”
The words are a clean, surgical strike to my gut.
“And you?” Mike continues. “You just spent months proving her right. You made her believe she’d found something real, someone who saw her mess and stayed anyway. Then you ripped it away because you were too proud to admit you made a stupid bet and were too scared to admit you needed help.”
Each word lands like a physical blow.
Because he’s right.
Christ, he’s so fucking right it makes me want to throw up.
“So this pity party on my couch?” Mike stands, towering over me now, every inch the captain, making me feel like a freshman all over again. “It’s over. She thinks you’re the worst person on the planet right now, so what are you going to do about it?”
I flinch, but he’s not done.
“You don’t get to sit here feeling sorry for yourself while she’s out there thinking she’s unlovable. You don’t get to make this about your pain when you’re the one who caused hers.” He lets the brutal assessment hang in the air, the weight of it pressing down on me like a physical thing.
Then he asks the question that will define the rest of my journey, the one that jolts me out of my passive misery and forces me, for the first time, to confront the monumental, terrifying task ahead. To figure out that it’s not enough to just be there for everyone, supporting them and staying quiet.
No, sometimes you’ve got to act and take a chance.
“What are you going to do to fix it?”
The question is not an offer of help. It’s not a suggestion or a gentle nudge. It’s a demand for action, a challenge that cuts through all my bullshit and self-pity and forces me to face the truth: I can either sit here and rot in my shame, or I can try to earn the forgiveness I don’t deserve.
“I don’t know if I can fix it,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Then you better figure it out,” Mike says, and there’s something in his voice—not quite sympathy, but understanding. “Because the Maine I know, the real one under all that performative bullshit, he doesn’t give up. Not on the ice, not on his family, and sure as hell not on the woman he loves.”
The word ‘loves’ hangs between us, undeniable and terrifying.
“Now get your ass in the shower,” he says, heading toward his bedroom. “You smell like depression and Chinese food. Sophie’s coming home in an hour, and she’s got some thoughts about your situation. Fair warning—they’re not gentle thoughts.”
He pauses at the doorway. “And Maine? That whole thing about being the easy kid, never being a burden?” He scoffs. “That’s bullshit. You’re allowed to need help. You’re allowed to be human. Maybe start with figuring that out, and the rest might follow.”
He disappears into his room, leaving me alone with his words echoing in my head. I sit there for another long moment, feeling something shift inside me. Not hope, exactly—I’m not naive enough to think this is fixable with some grand gesture or pretty words.
But maybe something like determination.
The first stirring of a plan, or at least the will to make one.
I push myself off the couch, my body protesting every movement. Three days of barely moving have left me stiff andaching, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest when I think about Maya. About what I’ve done and what I’ve lost.
But Mike’s right. Sitting here drowning in self-pity isn’t going to fix anything.
