Beautiful Collide (Saints Of Redville #3)

Chapter 21

21

Molly

The faint hum of skates on the ice fills the rink as I stand on the sidelines, pretending to scroll through my phone.

Really, I’m watching Hudson.

Not because I want to, of course. It’s purely circumstantial. He’s been on fire today, weaving through drills like the puck is his bitch.

We’re back home after a two-game loss, and the guys are practicing for the next game tomorrow. They need to win this next one.

Even Dane gave him a fist bump after some crazy play I have never seen before, which is saying something.

It’s annoying, really. No one should be that good at hockey, and that’s infuriating.

I sigh and tuck my phone into my pocket, shifting my focus to the clipboard in my hand.

Dane asked me to update some sponsor scheduling for the week, which is why I’m here in the first place.

Definitely not because I want to see Hudson Wilde in action.

“Hex.”

Speak of the devil.

I glance up to find Hudson skating toward me, his helmet pushed back enough to reveal that stupidly perfect smirk of his. He pulls to a stop at the boards, resting his gloved hands on the top rail.

“What do you want, Wilde?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. Contrary to my words, my tone is light. I can’t help but be thankful for his help yesterday.

Instead of answering, he removes his glove and reaches into his skate—pulling out a small white card. He slips it through the gap in the boards, holding it out to me.

“What’s this?” I ask, reluctantly taking the card.

“Just read it,” he says surprisingly serious.

I glance down at the card, half expecting some sort of dumb prank or an invitation to another tequila-fueled disaster. Instead, my heart stumbles as I take in the text.

Dr. Karen Aldridge

Licensed Therapist

Specializing in Anxiety, PTSD, and Trauma Therapy

I stare at the card, my chest tightening.

“Is this a joke?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended.

“Nope,” Hudson says casually, leaning a little closer. “She’s good. Helped a couple of my teammates when they were going through stuff.”

I glance up at him, still holding the card between my fingers like it might burn me. “And you thought you’d just . . . slip this to me?”

His expression softens, and I see something in his eyes that makes my throat tighten even more. Concern.

“You don’t have to call her,” he says, his voice low enough that no one else can hear. “I just thought . . .” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “You might want someone to talk to.”

The memory of the flight from last week rushes back—Hudson quietly guiding me through a panic attack on the plane, keeping everyone else oblivious while he talked me down.

It was . . . kind. Too kind. And now, this card feels like it’s carrying more weight than I can handle.

“You’re unbelievable,” I say, my voice shaking. “What, you think you’re my savior now? That you get to fix me?”

Hudson frowns. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it, Hudson?” I snap, waving the card in front of him. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you butting into my business.”

“It’s not about butting in,” he says, his tone calm but firm. “It’s about helping. You don’t have to do everything alone, Molly.”

“I’ve been fine alone,” I shove the card back through the gap in the boards and watch as it falls onto the ice. “For years.”

“Have you?” he asks, I meet his stare again. His gaze is piercing.

The question feels like a slap, and I take an involuntary step back. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough,” he says, his voice softening. “I know you’re strong as hell. But strength doesn’t mean ignoring what’s hurting you.”

Heat rises in my chest, my defenses flaring. “Don’t you dare lecture me on strength.”

“I’m not lecturing,” he says, holding his hands up. “I’m just saying it’s okay to ask for help. It doesn’t make you weak.”

“Thanks for the therapy session, Dr. Wilde,” I snap, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, how about you mind your own damn business?”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back down. “I can’t do that, Molly. Not when I see you struggling.”

“I’m not struggling,” I yell, the words echoing louder than I intended.

Several players glance over, their curiosity obvious, but Hudson waves them off, keeping his focus on me.

“You’re right,” he says, lowering his voice. “You’re not struggling. You’re surviving. But don’t you think you deserve better than that?”

The question cuts deeper than I’m prepared for, and my hands clench into fists at my sides.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” I say, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and something I don’t want to name.

“I know,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t need it.”

I turn away, needing to put distance between us before the tears threatening to spill actually do. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do, Molly,” he says, his voice following me as I walk away. “And whether you believe it or not, I just want to see you happy.”

His words hang in the air, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Because if I do, I might actually have to confront the truth in them.

And that’s something I’m not ready for.