Chapter 3
3
Hudson
I don’t know how long we sit there.
I didn’t bring my watch, and if I check my phone, it will just piss me off that I’m going to be late for warm-ups. It’s the twenty-first century, and engineers still haven’t managed to douse the earth with proper cell service.
Instead, I concentrate on helping Molly.
I’m about to speak when a creaking sound echoes in the small space, followed by a crash as the metal door bangs into the wall.
I jump to my feet and spin to see an older woman in a stadium uniform standing in the doorway, mouth open as she meets my gaze.
“My God, thank fuck,” I say before turning to look at Molly.
“I’m fine.” She shoos me away with a wave of her hands. “Go.”
I don’t think twice. Too much time has passed, and I’m sure Coach will be pissed.
I bolt from the small space, adrenaline pumping through my veins. Warm-ups should be starting soon. There’s no question. This is bad. Real bad. Not only am I still in my street clothes, but if everyone else is dressed and ready, I won’t be able to warm up with them.
I dash toward the locker room, but I don’t even make it inside before I realize how truly fucked I am. Half the team is already walking in the opposite direction toward the rink. The air crackles with tension as a few of my new teammates spare me disapproving glances and shake their heads.
Some look amused. Others annoyed. A few—like Dane fucking Sinclair—look ready to murder me on the spot.
There’s not even a second to soak in my success.
I made it to the NHL.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted. The only real goal I’ve ever had in life.
Fine. Even super late and in my street clothes, I can’t help but give myself a moment to soak it in and—
“Where the hell have you been?”
The voice slams through the tension like a bulldozer.
Shit.
I might not know him well yet, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize who that voice belongs to and that I’m about to get my ass handed to me.
I pivot slightly to meet the owner of the voice head-on, and just as I suspected, it’s Coach Robert.
“Well, well.” He strides to me, his expression carved from stone. His voice drips with sarcasm as he continues, “Look who decided to bless us with his presence.”
I wince. I’ve been here all of two minutes, and I’ve already managed to piss off the man who controls my ice time. Not great.
He weaves through players, stopping just short of me. “You think you can just waltz in here late?”
My heart begins to race, guilt mixing with panic. “Coach, I—”
“Save it.” He holds up a hand, and I swear the hallway gets colder. “I don’t care if your dog ate your alarm clock or if aliens abducted you. The only thing I care about is the fact that you’re late.”
I stand there, clutching my gear bag like a scolded kid. The weight of every player’s stare burns into my skin.
It takes everything in me not to hop from foot to foot. “But I—”
“This is professional hockey, Wilde.” Coach plants his feet, his eyes hard, the message clear. “No excuse will make this okay.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again—”
“You’re damn right it won’t.” Coach starts to pace, a predator in this confined space. “I don’t care if you were the top player in the minors, the second coming of Gretzky, or the goddamn tooth fairy. When I say show up, you show up. Got it?”
I know what I should say.
That I should keep my head down and mutter got it. Anything to appease him.
But I can’t.
I grew up in a fair household. One with parents who valued honesty and always listened when I had something to say.
Like an idiot, I try to explain.
“I was locked in a closet,” I blurt out.
I can see the disbelief etched on his face. The way he crosses his arms in front of his chest and sneers down at me like I’m some kind of idiot.
Just then, I catch a set of footsteps approaching me from behind.
I turn, relieved to see Molly.
Finally.
Desperation claws at my throat.
“Tell him,” I all but beg her, too worried to register the flash of alarm in her eyes before she smooths over her expression.
In its place is a calm, cool mask.
A mask of a stranger.
Dane bristles instantly, his broad shoulders squaring like he’s prepared for a brawl. He moves like a wall between us. “How do you know my sister?”
Molly’s lips part. For a split second, I think she’s going to tell him the truth. That I actually showed up early. That all of this is an innocent mix-up. That I’m not the asshole Dane clearly thinks I am.
But then she hesitates, her blue-green eyes darting to mine with something I can’t quite read. Guilt? Panic? An apology?
“Molly . . .” Dane keeps his voice low. Gentle. “Are you okay?”
His eyes narrow as he takes in his sister, clearly soaking up her distressed appearance. She can paste on a blasé expression all she wants, but it won’t hide her messy hair and wrinkled shirt.
Dane’s face takes on an even harder edge. “Did this guy upset you?”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This is even worse. Now, I’m basically being accused of harassment on top of being late.
My stomach drops as Molly stands there, motionless. The tension thickens the air around us. The entire hallway is silent, awaiting her answer.
A part of me can’t believe this is happening.
Why isn’t she saying anything?
I expected her to jump in and back me up.
Instead, she remains silent, her eyes fixed on the floor like it holds all the answers.
“Just say something,” I urge, the plea coming out rougher than I intended.
I hate that my voice cracks a little.
I hate the injustice of this all.
Dane steps closer, and even though we’re about the same height, his towering frame casts a shadow over me.
His jaw tightens, and his glare sharpens into something deadly. “Leave my sister alone.” The or else is silent but there.
“I didn’t do anything to her. I swear.” I lift my hands up defensively, trying to de-escalate the situation before it blows up even further, if that’s possible at this point. “I don’t even know her.”
“So you don’t know her.”
It escapes his mouth like a gotcha.
I glance at Molly, desperate for her to explain.
But she doesn’t.
Her shoulders are tense, her arms crossed tight against her chest as she stares at a spot over my shoulder, refusing to meet my eyes.
“Molly,” I say, quieter now. “Tell him the truth. Please. ”
I feel like I’m in the fucking twilight zone.
Molly’s lips press into a thin line.
I think she won’t ever speak again.
So it shocks me when she finally says something, her voice steady. Too steady.
“We don’t know each other,” she says in a cool and detached tone. “He must have me confused with someone else.”
The lie lands like a slap.
I’m too stunned to react.
Molly’s gaze flicks back to Dane, her calm facade unshaken. “I’ve never met him before.”
The ground around me opens up.
She lied.
She lied.
Dane lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. “You mistook my sister for another chick. That it?”
“What?” I ask, genuinely stunned.
“I know guys like you. You’re all the same. You string along puck bunnies whose names you don’t even bother to remember.” His tone is sharp, each word laced with accusation. “Players that play on and off the ice.”
The insinuation hits hard. My blood starts to boil. “That’s not who I am.”
“Oh, really?” Dane edges closer, sneering down at my street clothes. “Because you sure as hell look the part.”
I clench my fists at my sides, fighting to keep my temper in check. I’ve never had a problem with it. But I’ve also never been accused of being a player for getting locked in a storage closet and helping a total stranger come down from a panic attack. If anything, I should be canonized into the sainthood.
I should’ve shut up and agreed with whatever they said when I had the chance.
I’m late without a reason? Yes, Coach.
I’m benched? Yes, Coach.
I’m a fucking player, even though I’ve never been into casual hookups. Fucking yes, Coach.
“Believe whatever you want,” I snap. “But I was in the closet with your sister. Molly Sinclair. Not anyone else.”
Dane raises an eyebrow, his gaze hard and unyielding. “Then why the hell didn’t she back you up?”
His question lands like a sucker punch. I glance at Molly again, searching for something— anything —in her expression that might give me a clue. But she’s still staring at the floor, her face unreadable. Hell, she can’t even meet my eyes. I don’t understand.
“Dane.” Mason’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. “Chill. Let’s get to warmups before Coach has all our asses running suicides for the next week.”
Dane doesn’t look away from me, but his shoulders relax slightly at Mason’s interruption.
“Fine,” he mutters, his voice still laced with warning. I guess I don’t blame him. My little sister is annoying as shit, but I’d be the same way in his shoes. “But this isn’t over.”
With one final glare, he steps back and turns to Molly. Placing a protective hand on her shoulder, he leads her out the door as the rest of the team files toward the rink.
My new teammates snicker as Coach glowers at everyone with a pulse.
“Damn.” Mason grins at me, chucking my shoulder. “Sinclair didn’t hold back, huh?”
I don’t say anything, my eyes still on Molly’s retreating back.
“Don’t worry about it.” Mason pats my back before he leaves. “Dane is protective as hell over Molls. None of us are even allowed to sneeze in her direction.”
He’s being nice and trying to make me feel better about this mess. I appreciate it, but I can’t help my anger. It simmers within me, just below the surface.
You can’t afford to lose your cool, Wilde.
I feel like I’ve been suspended in time.
The weight of Molly’s lie bears down on me, heavier than the thick air in that closet we just escaped. I replay the past two hours in my head, searching for something I missed. A signal. A reason. Anything that explains why she didn’t back me up. But no matter how many times I try to make sense of it, the outcome doesn’t change.
She lied.
She lied, and there’s nothing I can do to undo the fallout.
This is not how I wanted to start my professional career. As the resident bad boy. Late, undisciplined, and prone to skirt chasing.
My reputation is fucked.
There’s no sweet-talking my way out of this. Not with Dane. Not with the team. And definitely not with Coach Robert. They’ve already written my story for me. The new guy who showed up late and caused a scene, probably thinking his talent is enough to carry him.
But that’s not me. Not really. Sure, I’m confident in my skills—I have to be—but I’ve spent years proving I’m more than just a kid with a quick stick. Now, with one mistake—one lie—all my hard work is slipping through my fingers.
It’s a hard pill to swallow.
It lodges in my throat, choking me with the bitter taste of frustration. I don’t just feel misunderstood. I feel betrayed.
I thought Molly and I had something.
I glance at the door Molly walked through, her silence still ringing louder than any accusation Dane threw at me. She left me to take the fall. And for what? To hide something? To protect herself? It’s not like we did anything wrong.
My jaw clenches as my mind spirals into questions I don’t have answers to.
“Rough first day, huh?”
The question startles me out of my reverie. It came from our center, Aiden Slate, which is almost as shocking as this whole debacle. The man has a reputation for being silent. One time, he managed to field questions at a press conference without a single word.
“Don’t worry about it.” Aiden wipes something off his laces, rubbing until his skates are shiny enough to reflect light. “Coach benched Wolfe three games for missing warm-ups last season. He starts now.”
I suit up as fast as I can, knowing there’s no chance in hell I’ll actually be allowed on the ice. “Three games?”
“Well, he missed warm-ups and called Coach ‘Gramps.’”
Coach barrels out of his office, where he dipped in to retrieve his clipboard, and stops just long enough to bark at me again.
“Enough of this. Don’t bother getting changed. You’re sitting this one out.” He pivots to the doorway, calling over his shoulder. “You better not make this a habit, or I might decide you’re more useful as a benchwarmer.”