Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Dane: Probably busy “reflecting on his life choices.” (Source: The Redville Post this morning. Hudson, you should probably have a libel lawyer on retainer at this point.)
Mason: Oh, he was reflecting all right. You should’ve seen him at the bar after I dragged his sorry ass there.
Dane: Do tell. 👀
Aiden: Story time. 🍿
Mason: The man was flustered. Red as a tomato. Muttering into his beer like the world personally wronged him.
Dane: Are we talking about the same guy?
Mason: Four drinks in, and he kept moaning, “Why is the world so cruel?” Like some tragic Shakespearean hero.
Dane: 😂 Was he crying into his drink?
Mason: He looked like he wanted to. Almost spilled tequila on my shoes when he dramatically sighed.
Hudson: Are you all done?
Dane: Nope. Mason, any more details?
Mason: Oh, just that at one point, he mumbled something about “hexes” and “torture.”
Aiden: Hexes? As in witchcraft?
Dane: Should we be concerned? I’ll ask the cleaning crew to hide their broomsticks.
Hudson: I hate all of you.
Mason: Bro, the world might be cruel, but we will always be crueler. <3
Hudson: You’re all dead to me.
Mason: 😘 Love you, too, big guy.
Hudson: [Attachment: Middle finger selfie]
Dane: Frame it. Hang it in the locker room.
Aiden: New team logo.
Mason: 😂 Cry harder, Shakespeare.
36
Hudson
I’m alone.
Mom, Dad, and Anna took off this morning while I slept in, a little hungover. Mason dragged me to get drinks last night after Molly and I parted, and I regret it now.
My head pounds like someone brought a drumline into the arena. The headache reverberates in my skull.
The overhead lights in the practice arena are way too bright, like they’re punishing me for my poor life choices.
I can feel every inch of yesterday’s beers sloshing around as I skate, my legs heavier than usual. Even the sound of skates slicing the ice feels sharper today.
Mason, of course, skates circles around me like he didn’t put back just as much tequila.
Asshole.
I usually like time at home in Redville. Especially since my family came to visit. But not today. Not after last night.
After Molly.
The conversation keeps replaying in my head like a highlight reel.
Her voice, so calm but raw, when she admitted her past. How hard it was to grow up without a family.
And then, the way she looked at me—not with her usual sharpness, but with something softer, something that made me feel like she was showing me a piece of herself she doesn’t share with anyone.
It rattled me more than I care to admit.
I didn’t know what to say then, and I still don’t now.
I like being on the road when I feel this way. It helps.
I should pay attention to everyone on the ice around me, but I can’t. Instead, I’m paying attention to her. Molly.
A part of me wants to hold on to my animosity toward her, but a bigger part knows I got rid of it years ago.
Now, it’s just a habit.
When Coach blows his whistle, I’m off the ice faster than ever before.
“What’s the rush, Wilde?” Mason calls out, skating past me with a smirk. “Hot date with your mom?”
I forgot to tell him my parents left this morning. Fucker.
“Probably late for his nap,” Aiden chimes in.
Dane snorts from across the rink. “Or maybe he’s just trying to keep up his streak of Coach’s most hated player. You’re not supposed to make it so obvious you want to leave, doofus.”
“Shut up,” I call over my shoulder, ignoring the chorus of laughter that follows me. “At least I’m not last, Mason.”
“Touché,” Mason fires back. “Don’t pull anything while sprinting off the ice, Grandpa.”
I ignore the rest of their hollers and catcalls.
I want to find Molly.
I need to.
I change quickly, throwing my gear on the floor for the equipment manager to figure out. Once I’m back in my street clothes, I head out in search of her.
I move through the maze of the practice arena, checking every spot I can think of.
Weight room? Empty.
Seating area? Dead quiet.
I make my way through the halls that wind behind the rink, the sound of my footsteps bouncing off the concrete walls.
Each corner I turn, I expect to see her, but she’s nowhere to be found.
It’s ridiculous how much my chest tightens with every empty hallway.
The last time I saw her, she looked . . . off. Not herself.
And something about that pulls at me.
I stop in my tracks when I find her, silent as I take in the sight of her. She’s standing near the far wall, one hand braced against it like she’s holding herself steady.
Her hair, usually tucked neatly out of her face, falls loose around her shoulders.
The sleeves of her Saints hoodie are rolled up like she’s trying to fight off a wave of nerves.
There’s tension in her frame. Her shoulders tight, her breathing just a little too quick.
Yet, even now, something about her stops me cold. Her sharp edges and soft curves all tangled into one.