Beautiful Collide (Saints Of Redville #3)

Chapter 2

2

Molly

I take a deep breath. Not that it helps.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t breathe.

The air feels dense around me, reminding me of the early morning fog when it clings desperately to the windshield of a car.

Why are the walls closing in?

The storage closet isn’t small.

This shouldn’t be happening.

I thought I was better. I’m not.

A heart shouldn’t race this fast.

I drop down to the floor, my legs no longer able to hold the weight of my body.

A strange, metallic scent clogs my nostrils, and my ears start to ring.

Cue the dizziness.

I press myself down lower until my head kisses the concrete. Invisible hands tighten around my heart, constricting the organ in my chest.

I’m trapped.

Again.

Always trapped.

“You need to breathe.” An unfamiliar voice breaks through my haze. “Come on. Inhale.”

I shake my head back and forth.

“I promise you can,” he coos.

I try. I really do. But my breaths still come out in short, frantic gasps.

It’s pointless. I’m going to die in here.

“It’s okay. You can do it.”

The space around us feels dark, and the ringing in my ears intensifies as I search for something— anything —to calm me.

“Take a slow inhale for me.”

I do what he says, allowing him to guide me.

“That’s good. Now, slowly exhale.” The voice is closer now, almost as if he’s beside me.

“I can’t.”

“Yet you are.”

I can’t help but let out a shaky laugh.

“See? Even laughing is breathing.”

I hear movement, and then I feel his warmth. He must be right beside me, and that makes my heart beat even faster.

“Shh.” Rough fingers touch my hand. “In. And out.”

I hesitate at first but eventually follow his lead.

“In. Out.”

The tightness in my chest loosens. It’s definitely better than moments ago.

“Can you open your eyes?”

I shake my head, immediately dizzy from the movement. “No.”

“Come on, Molly. Please.”

His smooth baritone as he says my name forces an eyelid open.

I stare at him out of one eye. “You do know who I am.”

“You gave me your name,” he points out.

Shit. I totally forgot. I hate that I get like this. Panicked. Messed up. Unable to push myself out of it.

“You didn’t need to, though,” the new guy, whose name I’m still not privy to, admits. He squints, and small lines form at the sides of his temples. “Of course, I know who you are.”

“And you? Do you have a name?”

“Hudson Wilde.”

Hudson.

I realize he gave it to me earlier as we argued. He held his hand out, and I didn’t even shake it. I almost feel bad about it. Almost.

Consider it the price of admission for staring at my ass.

Which, to be fair, I would’ve enjoyed, since he is hot. But he caught me at a bad time. Or rather I caught him at a bad time. It’s game day, the closet must be a zillion degrees, and I absolutely loathe enclosed spaces.

If Hudson remembers that he already gave me his name, he doesn’t call me out on my panic-induced memory lapse. He just helps me ride this out, patting my hand every now and then.

“Fun name,” I manage to groan out.

“I think so.” The corner of his mouth tips up into a smirk, and I swear it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

That’s one way to calm a panic attack.

As if on cue, my gaze darts around the room, and it all comes rushing back. I’m locked in the storage closet. No way out. And I doubt anyone will come for us for some time. Not with the game starting soon. I don’t even have my phone with me. Even if I did, it’s pointless. Huge chunks of the stadium have no signal.

My heart thumps in my chest again.

“Hey, you’re okay.” It’s shocking how fast he catches on to my changes. “What’s going on?”

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

My fingers start to tremble.

“Please, keep breathing for me.” Hudson leans closer, his voice soft. “Forget the world. Pay attention to me. And only me. You can do it.”

I focus on him. On the steady cadence of his voice, as he prompts me again.

“In . . . out . . .”

I release another breath, feeling some of the weight lift from my chest. “What if we don’t get out?”

“Impossible.” He shakes his head with such certainty I almost believe him. “Someone will eventually need something. That wrench, maybe?”

A tiny laugh tries to claw its way past my throat and fails. I’m too choked up. Too antsy and amped up, and the only reason I haven’t completely lost it is this total stranger.

A warm feeling spreads across my back when I realize he’s touching me.

“Is this okay?” The concern in his voice nearly makes me sob.

I can’t remember the last time anyone cared for me like this.

Sure, Dane loves me. But he’s never been affectionate.

Not like this.

It’s not in his DNA. The man’s idea of love is patting my head like I’m a Labrador and telling me to suck it up.

I nod, welcoming Hudson’s comfort.

It takes me a few minutes of breathing before I can see again, and when I open my eyes, his bright blue gaze is staring into mine.

To say Hudson Wilde is very good-looking is an understatement.

He’s the kind of good-looking that makes you forget how to form sentences. All broad shoulders, sharp jawline, and a smile that screams trouble. I would bet that the second he makes his NHL debut, he’ll have advertisers lining up, begging for his face on a billboard. I would know. I have several on speed dial.

From a marketing standpoint, the team landed an ace. He’ll have the fans screaming from their seats each time he zips past. I can see the viral videos already.

I knew the Saints were bringing on a new player, but I never cared to research him.

I work exclusively with my brother, and while I often interact with the team, the other players aren’t my concern.

Making sure my brother is okay is.

Dane gave up his life for me.

He’d say he’s not struggling, but I see it differently. He’s hollow inside. A shell of a person.

I know the feeling.

Losing our parents, mainly Mom, changed us both to the marrow of our bones.

And here I am, trying to keep myself together, but instead, I’m losing my shit in a storage closet with one of his teammates.

A wave of nausea hits me.

Dane can never find out this happened.

How would I ever explain it?

He would want to know how and when this started.

I can’t tell him that.

I’ll have to think of an excuse for where I’ve been. Not trapped in a closet. And certainly not with his new teammate. Nope. The second he finds out about this is the second ten years of lies unravel. The darkness. The panic attacks. Him.

That can never happen.

Dane can never know.

Even if I have to lie through my teeth to make sure of it.

Lifting my hands, I bury my head in them.

“What’s going on?” Hudson rubs small circles on my back. “Is it being locked in, or is it more?”

“I hardly think that’s any of your business,” I can’t help but snap.

This is my own personal sin bin. I don’t talk about this stuff with anyone. Ever.

“Good.” He brushes off my tone, unbothered. “There’s the fire you need.”

“What?”

“You were about to lose it again, and I needed to stop you. Having you think I’m a nosy asshole is better than the alternative.”

“You’re diabolical.”

“I like to believe I am.”

Despite the fact we’re virtual strangers, I do feel the need to tell him something. Anything. He’s been so kind. But I can’t spill too much. Even I don’t want to admit to myself why I’m like this.

“I have issues with closed spaces . . .”

“You’re claustrophobic?”

“Not really. It’s a bit more than that, but I don’t want to get into that right now. If I think about it, I tend to spiral.”

“Tell me something else . . . Molly.”

The way he says my name sends chills down my spine.

Easy, girl. You’re trapped in a closet with a stranger. This is not the time or place to get all hot and bothered.

Wait. My mouth drops open. I’m trapped in a closet, and my libido is working?

This is new to me.

I’ve never felt anything but complete fear when locked in enclosed spaces.

I look over at Hudson.

What about you is different?

Sure, he’s stupidly cute. With gorgeous dirty-blond hair that looks brown at certain angles, crystal-blue eyes you can get lost in, and a killer body that would make me feel tiny under it.

But I’ve met many hot men.

Hell, most of the team regularly graces the center spreads of Sports Illustrated.

And still, I have never, ever thought of anything but suffocating behind a closed door in a small space.

He’s the first person who has made me feel like maybe the walls aren’t here to trap me.

Maybe—just maybe —they’re here to protect me.