Beautiful Collide (Saints Of Redville #3)

Chapter 11

11

Hudson

The arena is still quiet since the doors aren’t officially open to the public. A small crowd hangs out by the front entrance, but it doesn’t affect me since I’m driving to the back.

I pull my car past the security checkpoint and toward the team parking lot. It looks like I’m one of the last to arrive.

This is not a surprise, considering my life always goes to hell this time of year. My family needs me more in the fall, which affects my schedule.

At least the sky is clear this year, and there’s no tornado in sight.

Just as I’m about to pull into my spot, a very familiar car beats me to it, parking exactly where I was supposed to go.

Hex.

Of course, it’s her.

Ever since that night at the gas station, it feels like she’s everywhere. At the rink. At events. And unfortunately, in my dreams.

What the hell is she doing in my spot?

I sit frozen, watching as she bounces out of her car with an extra pep in her step. She leans back in, grabs her bag, and starts walking.

I roll down my window. “Seriously, Hex?”

She doesn’t seem to hear me. More likely, she’s ignoring me.

I take my foot off the brake and pull forward, looking for another spot. But, as I’d already guessed, most of the close spaces are taken. After driving all the way to the end of the aisle, I finally find an open spot and take it.

I dash out of the car, rushing to make it inside.

Molly is about twenty feet ahead of me. If I sprint, she can let me in, and I won’t have to hunt for my key card.

She’s fumbling with her bag as she approaches the players’ entrance, pulling out her badge to unlock the door.

As she swings it open, I shout, “Hold the door for me!”

Still far away, I know full well I have no idea where my card is.

“Sorry, I’m in a rush,” she shouts back, letting the door close behind her.

My jaw drops. Is this girl for real?

Jogging to the door, I grab the handle, but it’s locked. No surprise there.

Where is my key card?

I rummage through my stuff and—shockingly—find nothing. I bang on the door.

No response.

I bang again.

Still nothing.

The back door usually has a guard who can let me in, but with my luck, no one is stationed there today.

My life is a comedy of errors. Why did I think the start of the season would be any different?

It’s always like this.

Ever since my first day with Hex.

I sigh. Of course, this is how things would start. It’s only the first week of the season, and I’m already screwing up. It’s her fault. It always is. And now I have to find another way inside.

I start walking around the building, hoping to bump into someone who can let me in. The place is eerily quiet for this time of day. What the hell is going on?

I check every door I pass, but they’re all locked—and not staffed.

By the time someone shows up, I’ll officially be late. And I already know how Coach will react.

In the opening game of the season, Wolfe missed a critical pass during the third period against the Renegades.

A textbook one-timer setup—perfectly placed by me, obviously, which made the miss even worse.

Coach Roberts didn’t even wait for the play to finish before pacing behind the bench, his jaw clenching so hard I thought he might crack a tooth.

“Wolfe,” he bellowed the second Wolfe skated back to the bench. The poor guy hadn’t even caught his breath yet. “What the hell was that?”

“Sorry, Coach,” Wolfe mumbled, barely audible over the crowd noise. “I didn’t see it in time—”

Coach froze. He blinked slowly, like he was making sure he heard correctly. Then he exploded.

“Didn’t see it? Didn’t see it?” he roared, gesturing so wildly I thought he might knock over the water cooler. “It was right there! That puck was practically gift-wrapped and tied with a bow, and you—what? You blinked? Decided to take a mid-game nap?”

Wolfe’s face turned red, and he opened his mouth to explain, but Coach wasn’t done.

He jabbed a finger toward the ice. “That puck was so big, I thought it might be a goddamn meteor! How do you miss that?”

Mason, barely holding back a laugh, tried to chime in. “Coach, it was just—”

“Don’t start with me, Mason,” Coach snapped, pointing a finger at him. “If I hear one more word about ‘it was just,’ I’ll have the whole team out here doing suicides until Christmas!”

That shut Mason up fast. Wolfe, meanwhile, tried to disappear into his gear. But Coach wasn’t done.

“Wolfe, you’re on the bench for the rest of the game. And after the game, we’re staying late. Because clearly, you need a crash course in seeing the puck! Should we bring in an optometrist? Maybe invest in a telescope?”

Wolfe just nodded, his face redder than the goal light. He spent the rest of the game stapled to the bench.

The next day, Coach made us all come in on our day off to run drills while he shouted things like, “You see that puck? Don’t blink, don’t sneeze, and definitely don’t pull a Wolfe!”

I grimace at the memory, my pace quickening. Wolfe has been in the doghouse ever since, and I’m not about to join him.

Last year, despite a literal tornado, I made it to the game with time to spare, and Coach never found out just how late I was. But today, with no excuses or disasters, I’m screwed.

I grab my phone and call Aiden.

Voicemail.

Next, Mason.

Same. They’re probably in a meeting, and Coach would kill them if they answered.

Fine. Group chat it is.

Hudson: Someone help me.

Dane: What trouble did you get into this time?

Mason: This is getting ridiculous. You realize this happens every year, right?

I want to say yes, that it’s all Molly’s fault, but something tells me that won’t go over well with Dane.

While I consider him a friend, he barely tolerates me. The man is so grumpy, he makes a Monday morning meeting feel like a vacation.

Hudson: Yes, I’m aware this is becoming an unfortunate habit.

Hudson: Has Coach noticed I’m missing yet?

Mason: What do you think?

Hudson: Fuck.

Mason: Fuck is right. Where are you?

Hudson: Honestly, I have no clue.

Mason: The fuck?

Hudson: Somewhere between the players’ entrance and hell.

Aiden: None of this is helpful.

Hudson: I left my key card, have no way in, and need help.

Mason: . . .

Hudson: You’re not helping.

Dane: Maybe if you gave us an actual location, we could help.

Hudson: Glad to see the grump has entered the chat.

Dane has left the conversation.

Hudson: Oops.

Aiden: Why do you do this, man?

Hudson: Because it’s too easy.

Hudson: So . . . is someone going to help me?

Aiden: No.

Aiden has left the conversation.

Hudson: Mason?

Mason: You’re on your own.

Mason has left the conversation.

I type out a sad-face emoji but realize there’s no one left to send it to.

Ouch.

Fine. I’ll just head to the front of the arena. Someone will see me. Shit, I can’t have that. Pulling my hoodie up, I hope the glasses-and-hoodie disguise works.

With my luck?

I doubt it.