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)
“Seriously, Hudson,” she continues, unpacking the food. “What were you thinking? Fighting Hayes?”
“What was I thinking?” I repeat, crossing my arms. “I was thinking that prick had it coming.”
She shoots me a look, sharp and unimpressed. “You risked the playoffs, your team’s chance, because Hayes looked at me funny?”
“Funny?” I scoff, my temper flaring. “He didn’t just look at you, Molly. He was all over you.”
“And I handled it,” she says, her tone firm.
“Not fast enough,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, grabbing a pair of chopsticks from the counter. “Let’s eat before the food gets cold.”
We sit on the couch, eating in comfortable silence for a while. She curls her legs under her, looking far too relaxed for someone who’s spent the past five minutes yelling at me.
“You’re lucky no one knows why you fought him,” she says eventually, breaking the quiet.
“Yeah, well, if they did, I’d be in even deeper shit,” I admit, leaning back against the cushions.
Her gaze flicks to mine, something softening in her expression. “You really didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“Maybe not.” I shrug. “But I wanted to.”
She shakes her head, but a hint of a smile tugs at her lips. “You’re impossible.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is.”
“Is it?” I ask, leaning closer, my voice dropping lower.
Her breath hitches, and I swear her cheeks flush, but she quickly schools her expression. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to kiss me,” she says, her tone a mix of exasperation and something else entirely.
“And if I was?”
She opens her mouth to respond, but whatever comeback she has dies on her lips as I lean in and kiss her.
It starts slow, soft even, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, and I swear the world outside this apartment ceases to exist. No noise, no people, no team, no past.
It’s just her. Just the taste of her lips, the warmth of her skin, and the way she matches me beat for beat like she’s been waiting for this as long as I have.
The second her hands slide up to tangle in my hair, something snaps. A current rushes between us, hot and electric, and I lose any hope of taking this slow.
I deepen the kiss, angling her face as I press closer, my hands trailing down to her waist, anchoring her against me.
Her lips part, a soft gasp escaping her, and it’s all the permission I need. The kiss turns desperate. Her fingers tug at my hair, and it’s like a shot of adrenaline driving me to pull her closer and feel every inch of her against me.
By the time we finally pull apart, my chest is heaving, and her breathing is uneven. Her lips are slightly swollen, her cheeks flushed.
I take a moment to just stare at her, trying to memorize the way she looks right now.
“You’re still a moron,” she mutters, her voice breathy.
“Yeah.” I grin. “But I’m your moron.”
She groans, shoving me back against the cushions. “You’re impossible.”
“Yet you’re still here,” I point out, laughing.
She doesn’t reply, but the faint smile on her lips is enough to tell me I’m not entirely wrong.
50
Hudson
Hudson: I’m officially out of jail. Thank fuck we won this round. Coach says I’m free to roam the world again.
Molly: Did you have to do someone a “favor,” or did they let you out for good behavior?
Hudson: No favor. Just my natural charm and undeniable greatness.
Molly: Ah, so they finally gave up trying to fix you.
Hudson: Or they realized they can’t hold me back. I’m like a majestic bird, Hex. You can’t cage this.
Molly: More like a stubborn pigeon that keeps wandering into traffic.
Hudson: A majestic pigeon, thank you very much.
Molly: Sure, Wilde. Congrats on being a free man again. Try not to embarrass yourself in public this time.
Hudson: Who, me? Never. I’m a role model now.
Molly: That’s horrifying.
Hudson: You’re just jealous.
Molly: Keep telling yourself that, jailbird.
Hudson: 🐦
Molly: What is that?
Hudson: A pigeon. For accuracy.
Molly: 😂 You’re impossible.
Hudson: Hmm . . . yet you keep texting me back.
Molly: It’s called charity work.
Hudson: Admit it, you’d miss me if I ever went to real jail.
Molly: I’d survive.
Hudson: Liar.
Molly: 🙄 Whatever. Don’t do anything stupid.
Hudson: Can’t make any promises.
51
Hudson
It’s been a long two weeks, and my mind is a mess.
Tomorrow’s the championship game. The culmination of everything we’ve worked for all season.
The hotel room is quiet. The only sound is the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional muffled laugh from the hallway. I’m lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself to sleep.
It’s not working.
I should feel confident.
I should feel ready.
But instead, my brain won’t stop running through every possible scenario—the good, the bad, and the downright catastrophic.