Chapter 29
29
Molly
Dinner before a hockey game is always chaotic.
Dinner with the Redville Saints before game one of the eastern conference semifinals is something else.
It’s loud. It’s ridiculous. And apparently, it’s now my personal hell.
Like tonight, it’s like I’m trapped in a bad 1990s sitcom, and I’m the punchline.
When I walk into the room, I make a beeline to sit as far from Hudson as possible. I don’t even look at him, knowing his smirk is probably locked and loaded.
Of course, the whole team has different plans.
Those plans are to drive me crazy and, most likely, win the side bets they all made.
I stop dead in my tracks when Mason laughs loud enough to draw attention from the entire room. That’s never a good sign.
From the way Mason is laughing like a damn hyena, he’s up to something, and it doesn’t take me long to figure out what when he makes a sweeping gesture toward the seat beside Hudson.
The only empty seat.
I glance around, hoping for some miraculous alternative, but nope—every other chair is taken. This is a setup. A cruel, calculated setup.
My feet are weighted to the floor and refuse to move.
“Right there, Molly,” Mason announces this time. “That’s your seat.” It’s said in a way that the whole team can hear.
My face burns, but I keep it together. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me sweat.
“Actually, I was going to—”
“Sorry, there are no other seats unless you aren’t eating with us.” Mason, ever the troublemaker, flashes a wicked grin. “Dane said it would be okay.”
I shoot my brother a glare across the table, but Dane just shrugs, barely looking up from his phone. “It’s part of the truce,” he mutters, clearly more interested in whatever’s on his screen than my impending misery.
Traitor.
Hudson is already in the seat, leaning back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest like he owns the place.
His smirk is so wide he looks like he belongs in the movie Smile . “Don’t worry, Hex. I won’t bite,” he whispers for only me to hear.
The double meaning in his voice makes my stomach do an unwanted flip. Damn him.
“Whatever,” I mutter as I slide into the chair beside him.
The table is way too small, clearly designed for “intimate” dinners—which this is absolutely not. The second I sit, my knee bumps into Hudson’s under the table. Of course, he doesn’t move it.
I press my lips together.
Great. Just great.
He’s way too close to me. I can feel his arm and his thigh.
I try not to focus on it, but my traitorous brain has other plans. Images I’ve tried to bury resurface: his hands, his touch, the way his voice dips when he’s being serious.
I close my eyes, willing the thoughts away. But the moment Hudson’s fingers brush against my bare thigh, I nearly choke on my own breath. It’s like he can read my mind, and he’s weaponizing it against me.
I cough uncontrollably.
“You okay?” Hudson asks, his voice so innocent it could win awards.
“Yes,” I groan back because I’m not. I’m annoyed, flustered, and horny. Not a good combination.
The entire table turns to watch, grinning like they’re all in on some inside joke. Mason and Aiden exchange a look, and I know exactly what it means: they’re betting on how long I’ll last before snapping.
“No way you’re winning,” Aiden says, raising an eyebrow at Mason.
“Fifteen minutes, I’m telling you,” Mason replies, leaning forward like this is the most important conversation of his life.
They’re all betting on us. I figured Mason would, but everyone? Jeez.
This is low, even for them.
Hudson picks up his menu, smirk still firmly in place as he tilts it toward me. “What do you think, Molly? Want to share?”
I clench my jaw, forcing a tight smile. “How about I order something spicy, and you stay far away from it?”
Mason snorts. “I think it’s going to happen. I can feel it,” he tells Aiden in a half-whisper that might as well be a shout.
Hudson leans in, and I brace myself for whatever ridiculous thing he’s about to say. “We can share a Twinkie.”
I practically spit but manage to just choke instead.
“You okay?” His voice drips with faux concern.
“Yes.”
“Was it something I said?”
My nails dig into my palm as I fight the urge to throttle him.
The server arrives just in time to take orders, and I use the menu as a shield to avoid Hudson’s smug face.
As we wait for the food to arrive, I play on my phone, scrolling through videos and hoping no one bothers me.
I’m surprised when the food arrives only a few minutes later, but I welcome it because the faster we eat, the faster I can leave.
A few seconds later, the table is covered in steaming dishes that look like something out of a foodie’s dream. My plate is loaded with spicy pasta and vibrant red sauce. Hudson’s meal, of course, looks annoyingly perfect—a rare steak with roasted vegetables arranged like artwork.
I focus on eating, trying to lose myself in the familiar comfort of food. But even that’s impossible with Hudson sitting so close. Every time his fork clinks against his plate or his knee brushes mine, it’s like a jolt to my system.
Hudson’s body is way too close to mine through the whole meal, and I’m hyperaware of all his moves.
Even the way he chews somehow gets under my skin.
He doesn’t make noise. Or slurp. There’s no jaw clicking. He actually has great manners. Can he do anything wrong?
Why does he have to look so good doing the most mundane things? It’s infuriating.
The pasta is amazing, spicy enough yet not too spicy that it burns my lips.
For a brief few minutes, I manage to tune out the chaos around me. But it doesn’t last.
After I’m done eating, it becomes harder. Hudson doesn’t stop leaning closer, doesn’t stop smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
When the server finally clears the last of the plates, I let out a sigh of relief. Dinner is almost done, and I made it.
“Tonight’s been . . . educational,” Mason says once the server is out of the room.
Hudson raises an eyebrow. “Educational?”
Mason grins. “Yep, tonight we learned that Molly has the patience of a saint. I’d never be able to sit next to you for this long. Not without killing you at least.”
Aiden nods. “I had money on Molly lasting thirty minutes.”
“I’m surprised you all didn’t already know that I’m a saint,” I fire back.
“Hardly,” Hudson mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
There’s something in his tone, though—a softness buried under the teasing. It lingers, tugging at memories I’d rather leave buried.
A knowing tone.
One that tells of past secrets and future promises.