Page 74 of The Beautiful Collision
They don’t know she whispered those three words into the darkness of my room, or that I wanted so desperately to say them back that I had to bite my tongue until it bled. Because of the bet—thefuckingbet—that feels like desecration now, like I’ve taken something sacred and smeared it with shit.
I stand abruptly, the bench scraping against the floor. “I need a shower.”
But even under the scalding spray, I can’t wash away the truth.
I’m trapped in a cage of my own making.
If I tell the guys the bet is off, I have to pay up—money I don’t have.
And if I tell Maya about the bet?
Jesus Christ, I can’t even think about it. She just torched her relationship with her entire family and at the same time decided I was worth choosing… worth investing in. And all this time, I’ve been lying to her face, using her trust as currency in a locker room wager I never should have made.
I stay under the water until it runs cold, then I finally shut it off. I wrap a towel around my waist and walk back to my stall, where my phone lights up like a live grenade. I know I should check it, because there might be a Chloe update, but I also know that whatever’s waiting for me will likely make my day worse.
Still, like picking at a scab, I can’t help myself.
There’s one new message. From Maya. My thumb hovers over it for a long moment. Part of me wants to delete it without reading, to spare myself whatever disappointment or disgust she’s about to express. But the masochistic part of me—the part that thinks I deserve every bit of pain coming my way—opens it.
Thinking of you. Don’t be too hard on yourself.
The words blur as I stare at them. I read them again. Then again.
There’s no anger. No disappointment. No questions about what the fuck happened out there. Just… support. Pure, uncomplicated kindness. And that heart emoji—casual but significant, a little red declaration that she’s on my side even when I just proved to everyone watching that I’m a complete failure.
The phone trembles in my hand.
She saw everything, and her first instinct was to comfort me.
The contrast between what she’s offering and what I deserve makes me feel physically sick. Here’s this incredible woman, someone who fed me when I was too broke and proud to feed myself, who sees through every performance I put on, and who’s willing to support me every day andespeciallyafter a day like this…
And I’m lying to her face every single day.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I could text back. I could go home and fall into her arms and pretend for one more night that I’m not the disaster I know I am, that there’s not a bomb under our relationship that I created. I could let her keep looking at me like I’m worth saving.
But that’s the thing about being the easy kid, the one who never adds to the burden—you learn early that love means not becoming someone else’s problem. And that’s exactly what I am.
A problem.
A walking disaster of debt and lies and family crises.
A man who made a bet on her heart.
The absolutelastthing someone like Maya needs, because she’s brilliant and strong, and because she deserves someone who can match her, not drag her down into the cesspool of his failures. Someone with a hell of a lot more good going on than me.
The guys are still talking around me, their voices a distant buzz. Someone mentions grabbing beers. Someone else suggestswe find some puck bunnies to help us forget. Normally I’d be leading the charge, but tonight the Maine Show is on hiatus.
“You coming out with us?” Mike asks, still trying to salvage something from this wreckage of a night. “We’re going to hit O’Neil’s, decompress a little.”
The thought of sitting at O’Neil’s, pretending everything’s fine, performing the role of Maine Hamilton while my phone burns with Maya’s unanswered message—I’d rather take another shift on that ice and let the opposing team use me for target practice.
But the alternative is going home. Going home to her. Seeing her sympathy, feeling her comfort, accepting her care when I know what I really am: a liar who’s been playing her for money, who’s caught between forfeiting the bet he can’t afford to lose and destroying her trust with a bet he doesn’t want to win.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say, the word scraping out of my throat. “I’ll come.”
Rook claps me on the back, some of his energy returning now we’re talking about drinking instead ofthatdisaster. “That’s my boy! First round is on me.”
It’s meant to be a gesture to show me he’s got my back, but it just reminds me that these guys—my friends, my teammates—have money riding on me breaking Maya’s heart. They don’t know that’s what they’re betting on, but I do. I know exactly what I’m doing, or what I was doing.
