9. Hudson
HUDSON
I’m fucking close.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, ready to explode at any second.
Nineteen years.
That’s enough time for a memory to become a scar.
Jonas Sorenson.
His voice. His order.
Put the bitch down and move on.
I punch the heavy bag so hard it slams into the metal frame with a loud clang.
Pain shoots through my knuckles.
Good.
I hit it again anyway.
Lately, the rage under my skin is too much. It’s so sharp I feel it’ll rip me apart if I stop moving, even for a second.
“Don’t break that again,” Sam calls from across the gym, where he trains one of the team members in Jiu-Jitsu.
Sam leads the team's offseason strength training. He does conditioning, rehab, and fight training when the coach wants us to be tougher before the playoffs.
Today, he’s stuck with me too.
I slam the bag one more time.
I can almost taste it.
Finishing what started the night my mother died.
Finally making Jonas Sorenson hurt the way I hurt.
And somehow, despite all that, my betrayer of a dick decided it liked Eva Sorenson too much.
I could have killed her right there. Had my fucking hands around her pale throat. Could have kept going, squeezed until the life went out of those navy-blue eyes. Could have left her there and called it self-defense since she attacked me first.
Instead, I walked away half-hard, like a goddamn idiot.
I wipe my forearm across my face, breathing hard.
I have no business wanting her.
No business thinking about the freckles across her nose or the way her body felt pinned beneath mine.
No business remembering the look in her eyes when she realized exactly what she was doing to me.
That’s the part that really pisses me off.
She knew.
I drive another punch forward.
It would be easy to blame this on the fact that it’s been months since I last got laid.
But I’m not stupid enough to lie to myself about it.
I’m disciplined, more than most guys in Martin’s crew.
I don’t lose control because of sex.
Which means this is a problem.
Because I wanted her.
Not just physically.
That would almost be easier.
No, what disturbs me is the instinct underneath it.
The pull.
The curiosity.
Eva Sorenson is supposed to be about revenge.
Not temptation.
Not the image of wet curls clinging to pale skin.
Not the memory of her beneath me, defiant even with my hand around her throat.
And definitely not the kind of distraction that sticks with me after I leave the room.
I wanted her.
In ways that had nothing to do with violence.
That’s what unsettles me the most.
I’m not proud of it.
But I’m still a man.
And she’s still beautiful.
Which means my body reacted exactly as bodies do to women like Eva Sorenson.
Doesn’t make it any less dangerous.
She’s marked for death by me. As the saying goes, you don’t eat where you shit.
Sweating and finally burning through enough adrenaline to breathe normally again, I head toward the mats to stretch out my shoulders.
“Jesus,” a voice says nearby. “You are always this charming in the morning, or did someone piss in your cereal?”
Connor sits on a bench, curling a dumbbell. He stops and looks at me, wearing that stupid grin.
“What the fuck do you want, Mouth?” I growl. “A fuckin’ selfie? An autograph? Piss the hell off.”
His grin only widens.
“That was impressive,” he says, nodding toward the bag. “Six-foot-five with the strike of an enforcer. You sure you’re playing the right position tonight?”
I stretch my neck to one side, ignoring him.
“Maybe you should switch it up,” he adds. “Try something new. Since you’re clearly washed up in goal.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
He laughs, never bothered by anything.
“I think maybe you’ve been fucking yourself too often. You’re all pent up. Go get some fresh pussy or something.”
“Mind your own fucking business.”
Connor sets the weights down and leans forward, elbows on his knees now.
His grin fades a little.
“This team’s got problems,” he says. “And lately? You’re one of them.”
My head snaps toward him.
Wrong day.
Wrong fucking topic.
My hands curl into fists.
“Careful,” I say.
Connor doesn’t back off.
“That temper?” he says. “It’s getting sloppy.”
“Says the guy who can’t crack the first line.”
“Says the guy who can’t make a save to save his own life,” he fires back, smiling, enjoying himself.
That finally sets something off in me.
I rise slowly to my full height, towering over him.
“Shut,” I say evenly, “the fuck up.”
Connor stands too without hesitation.
Closes the distance until there are barely two inches between us.
“Or what?” he asks.
That’s it.
My self-control breaks.
I have him in a headlock on the mats in less than a second. We grapple. He punches my ribs before I punch him square in the nose.
He yowls like a cat and rolls away, blood spurting.
I’m about to go in for another blow when someone grabs me hard from behind, yanking me away and dragging me to my feet.
“Enough!”
A voice cuts through it, sharp and absolute.
I fight it for half a second anyway, chest heaving, vision narrowed to red.
Connor sprawled on the mat, clutching his face, swearing.
“Psychotic fucking totem of bad luck,” he spits through the blood.
I don’t even know what the fuck that’s supposed to mean.
I don’t care.
Someone shoves me through the gym, out into the hallway, and up against a wall.
It’s Nik.
“The fuck’s gotten into you, Cross?” he demands, holding me with both hands against the wall. “You’re a dick on a normal day, but you’re even more feral than usual.”
I glare at him without answering.
“This isn’t still about the last game, is it? Let it go, if it is.”
“Connor’s an asshole,” I mutter.
“Yeah? In other news, the sky is blue. Of course, he’s an asshole. And what?”
I drag a hand over my face, trying to get my breathing under control.
“His fuckin’ mouth,” I say through gritted teeth. “Just…”
“Just what?” Nik interrupts. “His nickname is The Mouth, Hudson. You’ve known that since day one. It’s never set you off before. Just ignore it.”
I look away.
Because he’s right.
Connor just happened to be standing in front of me when all this pressure needed somewhere to go.
I nod, slowly coming back to myself.
“We’ve got a game tonight,” Nik says. “You gonna get your shit together, or do I need to have Coach bench you?”
I lift my head and look at him.
The kind of look that usually shuts people up.
Doesn’t work on him.
It never does.
“Good,” he says anyway. “Then get it together. No problem, yeah?”
I hold his gaze for a second longer, then nod.
“I’ll get it together.”
“By game time,” he says.
Not a question. A demand.
“Yeah,” I say quietly.
He releases his grip on me, finally stepping back.
“Go take a walk,” he adds. “Get a drink. Meditate. Punch something that isn’t a teammate. I don’t care. Just fix it.”
I push past him and walk down the hallway, all the way through the maze of halls to the parking lot.
Cold air hits my face.
It doesn’t help.
I crawl into my car and blare music so loud that it drowns out all other thoughts.
I close my eyes and breathe, and only when I can do it without thinking of that woman’s tits and ass and mouth do I allow myself to turn off the music and make a call.
Martin answers on the first ring. “Hudson.”
“What the fuck are we doing with this girl, Martin?” I demand.
“Creating leverage,” he answers.
“And how long will we be doing that?” I ask, forcing calm into my voice.
“As long as it pleases me,” he answers. He sounds bored.
“What are we trying to leverage her for, exactly?”
“When has that ever been your business?”
I grind my teeth. “It’s been days. I want her dead.”
“So eager to just slit throats and leave the bodies to rot. You have no finesse with these things. I think hockey scrambled your brain. Leave the big thoughts to me, will you?”
“What the fuck do you plan to do with her when we both know we’re not sending her home with a beating heart?”
“Well, she is a pretty thing…” he trails off.
A chill runs down my spine.
“I like the anticipation,” Martin says, almost conversational. “Making someone wait. Watching them unravel while they try to guess what comes next.”
I lean back in the driver’s seat, jaw clenched tight, phone pressed to my ear.
“They get all up in their own heads, you know. They make up the worst possible outcomes, worse than I can ever think of on my own. It’s delicious, really.”
I stare out the windshield.
Say nothing.
Because what the fuck do you even say to that?
He sounds like a goddamn psychotic villain.
And the worst part?
There was a time I would’ve eaten it up.
After my mother’s death, I thought he’d saved me.
The social workers told me he was family.
The only one I had left.
And he looked just like a scared kid would imagine a hero to look like.
I latched onto that and worshipped him.
Needed something solid to hold onto.
I would’ve done anything for him back then.
Anything.
Wanted to prove myself. Wanted to make him proud. Thought if I worked hard enough and followed orders well enough, I’d earn something from him that felt like…approval.
Like belonging.
Martin was the closest father figure I was ever going to get.
Lucian still sees him that way.
Still looks at him like he hung the moon.
But Lucian’s never had to do what I’ve done.
Never had to put a bullet in someone and walk away like it didn’t matter.
Never had to run product, deliver weapons, or clean up messes no one talks about.
He’s been protected.
Kept clean.
Martin treats him like a son.
Me? I got pulled into all that early, and now I’m too much of an insider. I’ve seen too much of Martin’s darkness.
I know Martin is not a good man. He might’ve been something else once.
Might’ve even been decent.
But that man’s gone.
What’s left is something else entirely. I let out a slow breath.
Not that I get to judge.
I've got plenty of blood on my own hands.
There were moments when I thought I would walk away.
Start a life with someone.
Be…normal.
Maya always said it was a monster I made myself. Something learned. Something I could still undo if I wanted it enough.
I hold onto that on days when I need to believe there’s still a line left inside me somewhere.
I close my eyes briefly.
Today, I got dangerously close to crossing it.
For one ugly second, I wanted to take Eva Sorenson, whether she wanted me to or not.
The thought feels like poison in my chest.
Because it would've been easy.
And I don't know what would've been left of me afterward.
Martin’s voice drags me back before I spiral any further.
I tune in enough to catch the end of whatever he’s saying.
“Do what you’re going to do,” I say, voice rough but controlled. “So I can do what I need to do. Please.”
Twice now I’ve used that word.
Please let me finish this.
Please let this end.
Martin is unmoved. “Remember your place, son. Need I remind you who runs this organization?”
I don’t answer.
“Hint,” he adds, almost amused, “it’s not you.”
Silence stretches between us for a second.
“Have a good game tonight.” He says before hanging up.
I lower the phone slowly, stare at it for a second, then toss it onto the passenger seat.
Then I lean my head back against the headrest.
Close my eyes.
And turn the music back up.
Loud enough to shake the windows.
But it still doesn’t drown her out.
And for the first time since I was eleven years old,
I’m no longer completely sure which part of me will win.