Beautiful Collide (Saints Of Redville #3)

Chapter 1

1

Hudson

Don’t fuck this up.

My heart thunders like I drank too much coffee or took speed.

Neither actually happened, but here I am, pacing the large arena, needing to calm down.

Today is important. It’s my first game with the Redville Saints.Hence why I’m a fucking mess.

Get out of your head, Wilde.

It’s not like this is my first game.

But it’s your first game in the NHL.

My hands start to shake at my sides.

Shit.

I can’t walk into the locker room for my first game, shaking like a pussy.

My eyes scan the vast space, landing on a door just up and to the left of the large hallway.

I should head to the locker room and get myself sorted. I came early to do just that, but I still need a second to myself.

Crossing the distance, I see that the door is half open already. Fuck. Hopefully, no one is in there.

Fuck it. I can’t risk seeing anyone I know now. It’s either get caught by however many people can fit in a tiny closet or however many can fit in the giant locker room.

I step inside the room, pulling the door closed at the same time.

The second it shuts behind me, I take a deep breath and survey my surroundings.

Just as I thought. A storage closet.

There’s shit everywhere.

Great location, Wilde.

Couldn’t have picked a better spot to gather your thoughts.

Just as I’m about to turn around and find a bathroom or something, I hear a sound.

I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out where it came from. Then I hear it. A grunt. A deep sigh follows the grunt. I’m not alone in this storage closet.

Fucking fantastic.

It would be just my luck to stumble into a new teammate jerking off on my first day here. Nothing screams great first impression like trauma bonding over some perv’s idea of a game-day warm-up routine.

I shut my eyes, debating whether I’m curious enough to investigate. To see or not to see? My curiosity wins out, and I weave around a shelf, spotting someone in the far corner, wedged between stacks of discarded hockey sticks and cleaning supplies.

She’s bent over at the waist.

And just like that, the nerves are gone.

My hands don’t shake.

My mind stops racing.

My heart rate, however, picks up for an entirely different reason.

Holy shit, this girl has an ass. It’s probably not the most polite reaction, yet I can’t help but stop where I’m standing and stare.

Since my timing obviously sucks, she chooses that exact moment to look up.

“Seriously? Creeper.”

“What?” I raise my hands in the air, feigning innocence. “Can’t hate a guy for looking.”

“Actually, I can.” She straightens up, then spins to face me, her arms crossed.

If I thought her ass was nice, it’s got nothing on her face. For a second, I forget how to breathe.

If this is how I go out—trapped in a closet before I even play my first pro game—I can’t complain.

She’s stunning in a way that doesn’t feel real. Like someone plucked her straight out of my dreams and dropped her into my lap.

She looks young, probably around my age, early twenties, but there’s something timeless about her.

Long brown hair spills over her shoulders, catching the light. Her skin glows, flawless and warm, and her lips. . .

God, her lips.

They are full and slightly parted like she’s about to say something clever.

But her eyes hit me hardest. Seafoam green, bright and sharp, like they’re daring me to get too close. They lock on to mine, and I swear she sees right through me, peeling back every layer with one glance.

The world narrows to just her. Us.

I’m not the kind of guy who believes in fate, but right now, I’m wondering if maybe it believes in me. If this girl didn’t just catch me staring at her ass, I’d probably ask her out right this second. But unfortunately, she seems unimpressed by me.

In fact, she props her hand on her hip, her eyebrows narrowed.

Fine. Someone doesn’t appreciate me gawking at her. Duly noted.

I lean a hip against the shelf and kick one foot over the other. “What brings you to. . .” I spin a finger around, gesturing to the closet. “This part of town?”

Her eyes flare for a moment before she moves fast, grabbing the nearest object off the shelf, which happens to be a wrench. She waves it around as if it explains everything, frowning once she realizes what she grabbed.

She recovers fast, though, and pulls her shoulders back with fake confidence. “None of your business.”

“Wow. Touchy, touchy.” I don’t bother hiding my amused grin. “Let me guess—you’re an over-the-top fangirl who broke in disguised as maintenance staff.”

She’s not even in the maintenance uniform I spotted when I entered the stadium, but the need to fuck with her is strong. I’m not sure why. I’ve never been like this with anyone else.

“The opposite, actually. I’m hiding in here to avoid people like you.”

“People like me?” I bring a hand to my chest, mock-offended. “You wound me. FYI, I’m a great person.”

“Oh, really?” She raises a brow. “Because staring at a stranger’s ass totally screams ‘upstanding citizen.’”

“Would it scream ‘upstanding citizen’ if the ass didn’t belong to a stranger?”

“What are you doing here, anyway? You can’t be here.” Her tone catches me off guard. She’s openly hostile, something I’m not used to.

It’s my turn to pop up an eyebrow. “And you can?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Of course I can. I practically work for the team.”

I almost expect her to say duh. Like everyone should know who she is. Which makes me wonder why I don’t.

I narrow my eyes. Then it hits me. I know exactly who she is—Molly Sinclair, Dane Sinclair’s little sister. I’ve seen her before, and every time, she looks just as beautiful as she does today.

“And you are?” She tilts her head slightly as she looks me up and down. “Do you even work here?”

“ Technically , I work here.”

She raises a brow. “Technically?”

“Fine. I play here,” I correct. “For someone who practically works for the team, shouldn’t you know?”

“Ah, a hockey player,” she says as if it explains everything.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs, shoving the wrench onto the nearest shelf. “Hockey players are basically toddlers with money. Let me guess,” she adds, throwing my earlier words back at me. “You were wandering looking for snacks?”

“Snacks?” I laugh. “I’ll have you know that, in addition to being a great guy, I’m responsible, too. I brought all my snacks with me.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I came in because I thought someone was—” I stop myself, realizing how ridiculous it would sound if I admitted I thought she was a teammate jerking off. “Never mind,” I finish lamely.

A sudden smile takes over her face, and holy shit, I really wish we’d met on better terms. Specifically, terms that don’t include me getting caught staring at her very, very nice ass.

“No.” She smacks her forehead. “You heard a noise and thought you’d walk in on something R-rated, didn’t you?”

“Absolutely not,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

“Oh my God.” She’s laughing now, and I can’t even be mad at it. She’s that beautiful. “You did. That’s why you’re acting so weird.”

“I’m not acting weird.”

“You’re still here, aren’t you?” She brushes past me to grab something from a shelf. “That’s weird.”

“Well, excuse me for being concerned about strange noises in a closet,” I shoot back, helping her grab the grip tape off a shelf a solid two feet taller than her. “Next time, I’ll let the angry lady with the wrench handle it.”

“Good plan.” She slides the tape into her back pocket. “And for the record, it’s Molly, not angry lady.”

“Hudson.” I relax my arm when she ignores my outstretched hand.

She narrows her eyes, studying me in a way that both thrills and unnerves me.

“Oh.” Her head bobs up and down. “You’re the new player.”

I take a step forward.

She takes a step back.

Interesting.

“I am.”

“And what exactly are you doing in the storage room?” She swallows, pulling her shoulders back. “You would’ve already had to be in here to hear me dig for the tape.”

I shrug, trying to downplay it. “Wrong turn.”

Her eyes squint, scrutinizing me. “I find that hard to believe.”

“How do you figure?” I ask, defensive.

“This hallway is at the opposite end of where a player would ever be, so the fact that you’re in here feels pretty targeted. Are you following me?”

I scoff. “Why would I be following you?”

“No idea. Just asking.”

“No. I took a wrong turn. That’s all.”

“Yeah, okay. Well, on that note, new guy, I have to go.” She starts walking toward the door but stops in her tracks. “Oh, no.”

I rub my brow, getting whiplash from this conversation. “What?”

“Tell me you didn’t close the door.”

I follow her gaze to the now closed door. “I did. So what?”

“No.” Her hands shoot to her scalp, tugging at her thick hair. “No, no, no.”

“What’s the problem?” I inquire, sensing her rising panic.

She tosses her hands up. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously.”

“The door is broken.”

“Okay.” I shrug. “So what?”

“Not so what.” She shakes her head, beginning to pace, not even looking at me. “We’re trapped in here.” Her voice rises, urgency creeping in.

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” I say, trying and failing to lighten the mood.

“Yeah? Why don’t you try to open it?” she challenges, finally peering over her shoulder with an arched eyebrow.

So I do just that.

I stride over to the door, my hard steps echoing in the small space as my shoes clap against the concrete floor.

Once I’m standing in front of the door, the possibility that she’s right starts to sink in. I have a game soon. I can’t be late. There’ll be hell to pay if I am.

I reach my hand out, my fingers grasping the cold metal, and try to turn the knob.

Nothing.

It won’t move.

It doesn’t even budge.

A flash of brown catches my eyes. I pivot to see what it is. Her hair. It sways with the movement of her body.

I’m not sure what I’m witnessing.

Her tiny hands fist.

Her lips move fast, stumbling over incoherent mutters.

Is she shaking ?

Fuck.