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Molly

Damn, it’s cold in here.

Cold enough to make me regret not grabbing my coat.

My arms are wrapped around myself as I hustle down the aisle, scanning the rows for Josie.

The game is already underway, and the tension in the arena is palpable.

The cheers, the whistles, the booming voice of the announcer. Damn, this place is nuts.

I spot Josie waving at me with her signature sunny smile, an empty seat beside her.

“Took you long enough.” She rolls her eyes sarcastically as I slide into the chair.

“What happened to the sweet Josie I’ve come to love?” I shoot back, placing my hands on my legs and rubbing them, trying to stop the chill seeping through my leggings.

“Your brother happened. Now I’m the grump.”

“Doubtful.”

She giggles, the sound warm and light. “But seriously. It’s not like you to be late.”

“Had a few last-minute errands.”

That’s a lie. The truth? I spent too long trying to talk myself into coming. Too long trying to shake the mental image of Hudson Wilde out of my head. The man has taken up way too much real estate in my brain lately, and it’s starting to piss me off.

My upper body shivers.

Doesn’t matter that I’m used to freezing arenas; today, it feels worse. Maybe because my defenses are already frayed. Perhaps because I spent half the afternoon convincing myself that Hudson isn’t worth the mental energy I keep wasting on him.

The cause of my issues, the one and only Hudson.

Yep.

He’s cocky, infuriating, and way too good-looking for his own good. And I hate that my mind keeps replaying the sound of his voice, smooth and deep, like it was meant for late-night secrets.

Stop.

Nope.

I hate Hudson.

I hate everything he stands for because he’s a man-whore ass who is cocky.

Yet here I am, thinking about him instead of focusing on the game.

The blaring horn shakes me out of my thoughts. I pivot my body and focus back on the game.

The rink is a blur of motion, players darting back and forth, skates slicing the ice, the puck zipping like a black bullet between sticks. The buzz in the crowd is electric, pulling me into the moment whether I want it to or not.

Hockey is one of my only good memories as a kid—watching Dane play.

To this day, I can’t help but smile whenever I’m in the crowd.

The action around me has me on the edge of my seat, eyes locked on the rink.

I watch as the puck skids across the ice.

My breath lodges in my throat as it bounces from one player to the next.

Hudson is out there, moving like a predator. He skates along the blue line, his body low and his stick ready as Aiden passes it to Wolfe, who passes it back to Aiden.

Aiden then pushes the puck forward, weaving around a defender before dishing it to Hudson, who takes off like a rocket. The defenders close in on him, but he doesn’t falter. Instead, he keeps his head up, scanning the ice like he’s five steps ahead of everyone else.

With a quick deke, Hudson threads the puck through a defender’s legs and passes it back to Aiden, who’s already waiting. Aiden doesn’t even pause, sending it right back to Hudson as he cuts toward the goal.

It’s like they’re reading each other’s minds, the kind of connection you don’t see often. The crowd roars as Hudson shoulders past another defender, his speed and control making it look effortless.

Despite telling myself not to look, I can’t help it. I’m instantly drawn to him.

My gaze finds him—number 17.

His jersey clings to his broad shoulders, his movements sharp and calculated. He’s mesmerizing, and I hate that I notice.

I should be watching my brother, but instead, I’m riveted by Hudson Wilde.

He’s fast, darting down the ice like he’s untouchable. Every stride is smooth and powerful, like he was born for this.

I can’t help but admire him.

His control and precision speak of years of practice.

But it’s more than that. There’s a fire in the way he plays, a hunger that sets him apart. He doesn’t just skate; he dominates.

But it’s more than just his speed. It’s the way he sees the ice, the way he moves like he already knows how this play will end.

“He’s good,” Josie says from beside me.

“He is. Too bad he’s an ass.”

“You still hate him, I see. Despite playing nice?”

“It’s not about hating him. I’m indifferent to him.”

“Sure seems that way,” she retorts, and I turn my gaze away from the rink to look at her.

She’s smirking, her expression pure mischief. I want to argue, but I know it’ll only make her smugger.

She’s adorably cute in a sunshiny way. And perfect for my grumpy-as-all-sin brother.

I’m about to say something when the crowd around us erupts.

Needing to know what’s happening, I turn back to face the game.

Hudson has the puck. He pushes off a defender and powers toward the net.

As if my body has a mind of its own, I lean forward, placing my hands on the edge of my seat.

“Yep, just as I thought,” Josie says from beside me.

“Shh.” I shoo her off. “This has nothing to do with Hudson. I just love hockey.”

“Sure you do.”

Hudson pulls his stick back, and the world stands still.

Everything in me clenches, caught between wanting to see him succeed and wanting him to miss just so I can wipe that smug grin off his face later.

My heart pounds frantically in my chest. Waiting. Watching. Wishing.

The puck rockets off his stick.

Time slows as it sails through the air, cutting toward the top corner of the net.

Go in.

In a flash of black, the puck darts in the air, zooming past the goalie’s glove.

Before I realize what’s happening, I’m on my feet, cheering with the crowd.

I forget everything—our bet, his smirk, the way he drives me insane. All I see is his skill, his brilliance. He might be a bastard, but he’s beautiful on the ice.