Chapter 36
36
Hudson
I’m alone.
Mom, Dad, and Anna took off this morning while I slept in, a little hungover. Mason dragged me to get drinks last night after Molly and I parted, and I regret it now.
My head pounds like someone brought a drumline into the arena. The headache reverberates in my skull.
The overhead lights in the practice arena are way too bright, like they’re punishing me for my poor life choices.
I can feel every inch of yesterday’s beers sloshing around as I skate, my legs heavier than usual. Even the sound of skates slicing the ice feels sharper today.
Mason, of course, skates circles around me like he didn’t put back just as much tequila.
Asshole.
I usually like time at home in Redville. Especially since my family came to visit. But not today. Not after last night.
After Molly.
The conversation keeps replaying in my head like a highlight reel.
Her voice, so calm but raw, when she admitted her past. How hard it was to grow up without a family.
And then, the way she looked at me—not with her usual sharpness, but with something softer, something that made me feel like she was showing me a piece of herself she doesn’t share with anyone.
It rattled me more than I care to admit.
I didn’t know what to say then, and I still don’t now.
I like being on the road when I feel this way. It helps.
I should pay attention to everyone on the ice around me, but I can’t. Instead, I’m paying attention to her. Molly.
A part of me wants to hold on to my animosity toward her, but a bigger part knows I got rid of it years ago.
Now, it’s just a habit.
When Coach blows his whistle, I’m off the ice faster than ever before.
“What’s the rush, Wilde?” Mason calls out, skating past me with a smirk. “Hot date with your mom?”
I forgot to tell him my parents left this morning. Fucker.
“Probably late for his nap,” Aiden chimes in.
Dane snorts from across the rink. “Or maybe he’s just trying to keep up his streak of Coach’s most hated player. You’re not supposed to make it so obvious you want to leave, doofus.”
“Shut up,” I call over my shoulder, ignoring the chorus of laughter that follows me. “At least I’m not last, Mason.”
“Touché,” Mason fires back. “Don’t pull anything while sprinting off the ice, Grandpa.”
I ignore the rest of their hollers and catcalls.
I want to find Molly.
I need to.
I change quickly, throwing my gear on the floor for the equipment manager to figure out. Once I’m back in my street clothes, I head out in search of her.
I move through the maze of the practice arena, checking every spot I can think of.
Weight room? Empty.
Seating area? Dead quiet.
I make my way through the halls that wind behind the rink, the sound of my footsteps bouncing off the concrete walls.
Each corner I turn, I expect to see her, but she’s nowhere to be found.
It’s ridiculous how much my chest tightens with every empty hallway.
The last time I saw her, she looked . . . off. Not herself.
And something about that pulls at me.
I stop in my tracks when I find her, silent as I take in the sight of her. She’s standing near the far wall, one hand braced against it like she’s holding herself steady.
Her hair, usually tucked neatly out of her face, falls loose around her shoulders.
The sleeves of her Saints hoodie are rolled up like she’s trying to fight off a wave of nerves.
There’s tension in her frame. Her shoulders tight, her breathing just a little too quick.
Yet, even now, something about her stops me cold. Her sharp edges and soft curves all tangled into one.
We’re on the far side of the arena, farthest from the locker room. Right in front of a closet . . . like the one we first met in .
Molly looks like she’s caught somewhere between here and somewhere else entirely.
Her face is pale, her usual confidence nowhere to be seen. She’s fidgeting, her fingers twisting together in a way that makes her look . . . small. Vulnerable.
Her gaze darts around.
There’s almost panic in her eyes.
“Hey,” I say softly, stepping closer to where she is. “You okay?”
I move carefully, like I’m approaching a skittish animal—slow and steady, trying not to make any sudden movements.
Molly’s breath hitches, and I realize I scared her. Something I seem to do a lot of, though not on purpose.
And every single time, it leaves this hollow, twisting feeling in my gut. Like I’m the reason she’s looking over her shoulder, and I hate it.
I hate that I’m a part of the fear she’s carrying.
I wonder what’s upset her, and then I notice she’s staring at the closet door. Is it the memory of the panic attacks? I have no business wondering, but I do.
I don’t know why I’m always curious when it comes to Molly Sinclair, but I am.
Fucking sue me.
Of course, I remember all the times I’ve seen her like this, but I figured it got better. Obviously, it hasn’t. In fact, it feels worse. Bigger.
I’ve spent so many years avoiding her, trying my damnedest not to pay attention, but maybe the panic attacks never went away.
Or did something trigger her today?
“I can’t,” she whispers to herself, her voice trembling.
“You can’t what?”
She tips her chin to the door. “Go in there.”
“I’m here.” I take another step forward. “I’ll make sure you’re okay.”
She pivots her upper body to look at me. Her head shakes. Tears begin to well in her eyes. I want to reach out and hold her.
But I don’t want to push.
Who knows if touching her will set her off or calm her?
I need to tread carefully.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” Her voice is a mix of confusion and vulnerability. “After everything that’s happened?”
Neither of us brings up yesterday. When shit got too real.
It’s like some unspoken agreement.
Maybe we’ll never bring it up, but it doesn’t change the fact that it happened. It happened, and we can’t undo it, and I will never look at Molly Sinclair the same.
And hopefully, she’s done looking at me the same way she has the past few years.
“Believe it or not,” I reply, my voice steady, “despite all the rumors, I’m actually a nice guy.”
She huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh, but close enough. “Nice guys don’t torment their teammate’s sister until a bet makes them stop.”
I wince, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Touché. But for the record, you’ve tormented me right back, so let’s call it even.”
Molly doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes drift back to the closet door, and I can see the way she’s bracing herself—like just looking at it takes more strength than she wants to admit.
“What happened, Molly?” I ask softly. “Why can’t you go in there?”
Her fingers twitch where they hang at her sides like she’s fighting the urge to fidget.
She doesn’t look at me when she speaks. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” I say immediately, my voice firm but gentle. “If it was stupid, you wouldn’t look like you’re about to bolt.”
She swallows, her throat working hard.
For a second, I think she’s going to shut down completely.
But then she speaks.
“When I was a kid . . .” She stops, shaking her head as if trying to get rid of the words before they’re out. “No. Never mind.”
I take another step closer. Carefully. Slowly.
“When you were a kid . . . what?”
Her gaze flickers to me, her walls starting to crack just a little. Then she shakes her head again, and the moment is over. “Never mind.”
My jaw tightens, the words hitting me harder than I expect. “You can tell me. I won’t judge. I won’t even say anything else if you don’t want me to.”
Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and guarded again. “Don’t bother trying to pry. Others have tried and failed.”
“Fine. You don’t have to tell me,” I reply, holding her gaze. “I’m saying . . . I get it.”
She blinks, caught off guard. “What do you mean, you get it? I haven’t even told you what it is.”
“I mean, I get why you can’t go in there. Why it feels like you’re drowning just looking at it. You’re not crazy, and you’re not weak for feeling like this.”
She stares at me for a beat, like she’s trying to decide whether she believes me. Then her voice drops to almost a whisper. “I hate it.”
“Hate what?”
“This,” she says, gesturing vaguely to the door. “How one stupid door can still make me feel like I’m thirteen years old all over again. How I can’t . . . I can’t get over it. Not really.”
Thirteen?
Fucking. Thirteen.
I don’t know what she means by this, but I’m horrified for her. Furious that someone hurt her. And angry with Dane for letting it happen.
You don’t know that , I tell myself, forcing a breath out. Don’t make stupid assumptions.
“You don’t have to get over it,” I tell Molly softly. “Sometimes things stick with you, no matter how strong you are.”
Her eyes narrow, like she doesn’t believe me. “Easy for you to say. You’re not afraid of anything.”
“That’s not true.”
She scoffs. “Oh, please. You fight guys twice your size for a living.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “But that’s different. On the ice, I’m in control. I know what to expect. But fear? Real fear? It’s not something you just ‘get over.’ It’s something you learn to face one small step at a time.”
She’s quiet, processing my words.
“Look,” I continue, trying to keep my tone light but honest, “you don’t have to go in there right now. Or ever, if you don’t want to. But if you do . . . I’ll be here. I’ll stand right next to you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Molly’s gaze softens, and for the first time, I see something in her expression that looks like trust. “Why do you care?”
The question catches me off guard, but I answer honestly. “Because I do.”
I don’t know if she’ll believe me.
Especially with our background.
But I mean it.
We can fight, we can argue, we can hate each other to the core, but I’ll still care. You can’t hate someone without caring. Not that I ever really hated her. Even when she lied about the closet thing to Coach.
She must’ve had a reason.
Molly looks down again, biting her lip like she’s trying to keep her emotions in check. “You’re annoying, you know that?”
I grin faintly. “Yeah, I’ve been told.” I pause a beat. “By you. Repeatedly.”
A tiny laugh shakes her shoulders.
She returns my smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
A long silence stretches between us, but it’s not heavy this time. It’s . . . different.
Finally, she lets out a shaky breath. “Just . . . give me a minute, okay?”
“Take all the time you need.”
I step back a little, giving her space but not leaving. Not yet.
And as I watch her standing there staring at the closet door like it’s a mountain she has to climb, I realize something I’m not ready to admit out loud.
Molly Sinclair is stronger than she thinks.
And I’ll stand here as long as it takes for her to see it, too.
Her gaze softens, but the fear is still there, clouding her expression as she stares at the closet door again.
“I’m scared,” she finally admits. “I’m scared of small, enclosed spaces. I’m scared of losing control.”
The emotion in her voice hits me in the stomach like a gut punch. She’s not throwing up walls or masking it with sarcasm.
It’s just her—bare, honest, and vulnerable in a way that I don’t think anyone else gets to see.
“Then don’t go in,” I say quietly.
“I have to.”
Her words are resolute, but her voice trembles just slightly.
I move closer to her until we both stand in front of the large door. The air feels charged, like the space between us is holding its breath.
“What do you need from here?” I ask, my voice as gentle as I can make it.
“Dane needed something.”
I glance at the door, then back at her. “Why don’t you tell me what he needs, and I’ll grab it for you?”
She looks at me, her green eyes sharp but soft around the edges, like she can’t quite figure me out. “While I appreciate that, I have to get over this.”
It’s not just stubbornness in her tone. It’s determination.
And God, it guts me.
She’s standing in front of something that clearly terrifies her, and still, she’s ready to face it. That takes more courage than most people ever find.
“Has it been bad this whole time?” I ask. Needing to know if I was too self-absorbed to notice. If I missed something so big .
“No.”
Her answer is short, but the silence that follows says more than she does. I don’t move, waiting—giving her the space to say more if she wants to.
Finally, she exhales a shaky breath, her hands clenching at her sides.
“It comes and goes. I’ve been better for a while, but lately . . .” Her gaze flicks to the door, then back to the floor. “Lately, it’s been creeping back. Little by little.”
I nod, even though she’s not looking at me. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
Her lips twitch, almost like she wants to smile, but it doesn’t quite land. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It can be,” I say quietly. “You don’t have to conquer everything at once. You can start small. Just one step at a time.”
She glances at me then, and for a second, the vulnerability in her eyes sucks the breath out of me. “And what if I can’t?”
“You can,” I say without hesitation. “I know you can.”
She looks away again, and I watch as her shoulders rise and fall with another shaky breath. “Why are you so sure?”
Because you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.
Because I’ve watched you handle things no one else could.
Because even when you’re scared, you don’t stop moving forward.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I shrug lightly, trying to keep my tone easy. “Because I’m always right.”
That earns me a faint laugh—a real one this time. The weight in the air lifts just a little.
“You’re insufferable,” she mutters, but there’s no heat behind it.
I grin. “You’d miss me if I wasn’t.”
Her lips press together, but I see the way her shoulders relax, even just slightly. She glances back at the door, her expression tightening again, but this time, something is different about it—like she’s steeling herself, bracing for the fight.
“Ready when you are,” I say softly.
She doesn’t answer right away, but she nods, just barely. And as she moves closer to that door, I stay beside her, ready to catch her if she falls.
I watch as she takes a tiny, almost imperceptible step forward. Then she steps back, groaning at herself.
I offer her my hand. “Focus on me. You don’t have to go in there.”
“I do.”
“Then I’ll go in there with you.”
She hesitates, and my eyes search hers.
All while never breaking our gaze, she takes my offered hand. Her soft fingers brush against mine.
“One step at a time,” I remind her, guiding her toward the door as I open it.
I can feel her shaking, the tension radiating off her. Each step is a battle, but like the tough girl Molly is, she does it.
Together, inside the utility room, I switch the light on, making sure to leave the door wide open.
“I swear, it wasn’t always this bad.” Her voice is quiet, almost apologetic.
“You don’t have to talk about it, Molly,” I reply, glancing at her.
“But I feel like I owe you something.” Her gaze drops to the floor, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
She exhales sharply, brushing her hair back with a trembling hand. “I feel like I’m losing control. And I hate it. Things that used to scare me and didn’t for a while are back. Irrational fears.”
“Such as?”
“Closed spaces.”
“That I figured.”
“Heights. Sometimes.”
“Like flying?” I ask, tilting my head slightly.
“No, that was a fear of losing control.” She shakes her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I mean like heights, when I have no control.”
“Got it.”
I don’t really understand, but I don’t want her to stop talking, so I don’t chance it by asking her to explain.
“And so much more I don’t even know where to begin.” Her voice cracks slightly, and she turns away from me.
“I understand,” I say softly.
I don’t. Not really.
But if she’s talking, I’ll listen.
“I lied when I said it’s creeping back little by little. It’s storming in, and I can’t stop it,” she admits, her tone heavy with frustration.
“Maybe you should—”
“No. I’m fine. I’ll get through it. I did before.” Her voice is final, resolute, the kind of tone that closes a door.
I nod, not wanting to set her off again. Whatever is triggering these bouts of panic, I don’t want to make it worse.
Molly steps away from me, rummaging through a bin on the shelf. Her movements are quick and almost frantic. She shakes her head, clearly not finding what she’s looking for.
Then she stops, her back stiffening as she looks up.
Right then and there, I know that what she needs is too high for her.
Moving to where she stands, I reach out, grabbing the box just out of reach, high enough that she would have needed a ladder if I weren’t with her.
“Let me.”
Her mouth opens as if to object, but then it shuts.
Once I bring down the box to her level, she goes through it and grabs two bottles of skate polish, then nods at me when she’s done.
I place it back on the top shelf and turn to face her.
Her chin is tilted down, and I reach out and place my hand under her chin, making her meet my stare.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
My fingers trail across her jaw.
I want to kiss her.
I want to forget everything between us.
I close the space between us, my heart pounding louder than any words I could say. There’s been nothing—absolutely nothing—I’ve wanted more than this.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, watching her, searching for any sign she’ll pull away.
But she doesn’t.
Her chest rises and falls, her lips parting like she’s waiting for me, too.
That’s all it takes.
I tilt my head, bending down, and crash my mouth to hers. It’s not soft or sweet—it’s heat and hunger, a collision we’ve been building toward for far too long.
She meets me halfway, her hands gripping the front of my shirt like she needs something to hold on to. The second her lips part, I deepen the kiss, tasting her, swallowing the small sound she makes as her tongue moves with mine.
We kiss like the moment might disappear.
Like we’re afraid to let go.
It’s urgent and messy and all-consuming, a fire neither of us can put out.
My hands find her waist, pulling her closer until nothing is between us, just the heat of her body pressed against mine. Her fingers move to my neck, threading through my hair and bringing me in deeper.
I’m completely lost in her. Lost in the way she kisses me like she’s been waiting for this as long as I have.
Like we’re both making up for wasted time.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, tangled up in each other, but eventually, we slow, the desperate edge easing just slightly. My lips linger against hers, softer now, savoring her.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, the silence between us thick and electric. She takes a small step back, her hands sliding away, her gaze darting downward like she’s suddenly unsure of herself.
I stay still, watching her, trying to catch my breath. My heart continues to hammer, and I can feel the ghost of her kiss everywhere—on my lips, on my skin.
She steps back; her gaze darting downward.
“We shouldn’t . . .” Her voice is shaky.
“Bullshit.” I shake my head, resolute. “We should.”
“My brother . . .” Her words are barely above a whisper.
“What about him?” I lean closer, searching her face for answers.
“He can’t know.”
“Molly, you’re a grown woman. He—”
“He can’t know,” she repeats sharply, stepping farther away, her hands wrapping protectively around herself.
I reach out instinctively, but she’s already out of my reach.
“I have to go.” Her voice is distant, her eyes avoiding mine.
I open my mouth to say something, to stop her, but before I can, she’s already moving toward the door.
Then she’s gone.
A mirage fading into the distance, leaving nothing but silence in her wake.
Like she never happened.