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Hudson

The room is dark except for the faint glow of the city lights spilling through the blinds. I stare at the ceiling, replaying every moment from last night, knowing I won’t fall asleep anytime soon.

The game today should’ve been a distraction, but even as I tore down the ice, I couldn’t shake her. Molly .

What was that this morning?

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, groaning. God, what the hell happened at that gas station?

The memory rushes back in pieces. The storm pounding against the walls. The way she looked at me, half terrified, half something else entirely. And the way I caved, touching her like I couldn’t stop myself, kissing her like the world was ending.

Because it felt like it might.

For a moment, when all we could hear was the storm pounding on the shoddy roof, all I could think was we could die tonight, and I might never get the chance to touch her like I’ve always wanted to.

That’s the thing about Molly Sinclair.

As much as I hate her—and I do . . . a lot —I like her, too.

She’s funny, whip-smart, and cares about everyone (but me).

The truth is, she’s hard not to like.

And then there was the following morning. The ice-cold, dismissive version of Molly I’ve grown wary of this past year. I hopped off the phone with my mom, relieved that I had managed to convince her that I hadn’t spent the night in danger from that storm, when Molly barreled out of the bathroom like a demon.

She wouldn’t even meet my eyes as she climbed into the driver’s seat and peeled out of the station without me.

At the edge of the lot, just before she turned onto the road, she finally pulled to a stop and snapped, “Get in or don’t.”

Of course, I did.

I wouldn’t put it past her to make me walk to the game.

But we spent the entire ride in silence.

I replayed that moment a thousand times today. Even during the game. Her tone, her distance, the way she acted like last night never happened.

It shouldn’t bother me.

Hell, if anything, I should be relieved.

We hate each other, right? She’s infuriating, constantly pushing my buttons, and I’ve been more than happy to give it back to her. That’s our dynamic. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

But it does bother me.

I shift on the bed, raking a hand through my hair.

Molly Sinclair is a problem I don’t know how to solve.

She’s smart. Too smart sometimes , with a tongue sharper than a blade.

She’s got a wit that keeps me on my toes, throwing punches I didn’t see coming and making me laugh when I don’t want to.

She’s funny. And hot.

God, she’s so hot.

Not just in the obvious, I-can’t-stop-staring-at-your-ass kind of way. Though, let’s be honest, there’s that, too. The way she carries herself, with this fiery determination, makes you think she could take on the entire world if she wanted to.

She intrigues me, and I hate it.

I’ve been with a few girls here and there, and none of them have ever done this to me. They’re easy. Predictable. I know what to expect from them, and I know how to leave before things get messy.

But Molly?

She’s anything but easy or predictable.

She’s chaos.

And for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about her.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, snapping me out of my thoughts. I grab it, squinting at the screen.

Mason: Wilde, where were you this morning? Waiting for the tornado to carry you here?

Of course, the team caught wind of how Molly and I holed up in the gas station (minus the sex), and they haven’t stopped reminding me since.

Aiden: Late again? Shocker.

Dane: Do we need to chip you like a lost dog, Wilde?

I groan, scrolling through the avalanche of messages. The team group chat is relentless.

Mason: Seriously, though, how can one person always be late? Do you have a clock allergy or something?

Aiden: Coach is gonna have your ass if you don’t fix this pattern, dude.

Dane: Fixing it would require effort. Doubt he’s capable.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, debating whether to reply. What’s the point? Anything I say will just fuel the fire. Instead, I toss my phone onto the bed and let out a frustrated sigh.

I close my eyes, but the image of Molly in the gas station flashes behind my lids. The way she kissed me, how she’d melted against me before pulling away the following morning like none of it mattered.

And maybe it doesn’t matter. Perhaps it shouldn’t.

But I can’t shake the thought that it felt like it did for a few minutes last night.

And that terrifies me.