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49

Hudson

It’s been days since the fight, and I’m losing my fucking mind.

I’ve been trying to keep it cool. No fights.

Apparently, the media relations team doesn’t want my face plastered everywhere.

Don’t cause trouble.

Easier said than done.

It hasn’t been easy to ignore Hayes. Every game he’s in my face. It’s a pain in the ass, but I have no choice.

My life is boring as hell. I practice, play and stay home.

My walls are closing in. The TV, my phone, even my fridge—it all feels like it’s mocking me.

And knowing Hayes is still walking around without a permanent scratch on his smug face? It makes my blood boil all over again.

But then, there’s Molly.

She’s been slipping over late at night when no one’s watching. We’ve been sneaking around for a while now, and somehow, it’s the only thing keeping me sane.

Tonight, she shows up with a bag of takeout and a glare that could make a lesser man crumple.

“You’re a moron, you know that?” she says, dropping the bag on my counter.

I smirk, leaning against the doorway. “Nice to see you, too, Hex.”

She rolls her eyes, shrugging out of her jacket and tossing it over a chair. She’s wearing one of those fitted sweaters that clings in all the right places, and I have to bite back a comment that’ll only piss her off.

“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.