38. Hudson
HUDSON
I slow down when she asks me the question.
And for a second, I don’t know how to answer.
I pull out slowly, and she makes this soft, wrecked sound that almost undoes me right there. Then I’m lifting, carrying her into the bathroom before I can think too hard about it. I need her to see me clearly.
The bright light floods over us both.
I position her in front of the mirror and stand behind her, my hands sliding over her body until they settle on her breasts. My cock presses against the curve of her ass while I stare at our reflection like a man trying to memorize every second of this.
Her hair is wild around her shoulders, her lips are swollen from kissing, her eyes are bright and wet, and she is so fucking alive.
And then there are the scars, the brand near her shoulder.
Bruises still healing beneath pale skin.
Every mark on her body feels like a blade sliding under my ribs.
She carries them because of me.
Eva shifts slightly in my arms, almost self-conscious, and I tighten my grip instinctively.
“No,” I murmur. “Look at me.”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror.
"I need you to see us."
She fits against me like she was fucking made for it.
I kiss her shoulder slowly, unable to stop touching her.
“Still wondering if I love you?” I ask softly, kissing her shoulder.
My hands slide down to her waist, holding her tighter.
“Eva, I would burn the world down for you.”
I mean every word.
Nothing in my life has ever felt this absolute.
I lower myself onto the cold tile floor, pulling her with me until she’s straddling my hips.
“You’re in control,” I tell her, sliding my hands up her thighs slowly. “Take what you want.”
Emotion flashes across her face so fast it hurts to look at.
“Take everything,” I say again, rougher now.
She sinks down onto me slowly, and we both groan at the feeling.
Fuck.
Her pussy is warm and tight and perfect in a way that makes my brain stop working entirely.
She takes a shaky breath, and I grip her waist harder as she starts moving, slow at first, both of us trying to find our rhythm again.
But all I can do is look at her.
At the woman I was supposed to hate.
The woman I was supposed to kill.
And instead, I chose her.
I guide her hips helplessly, my head falling back against the cabinet as pleasure and emotion crash together so hard I can barely separate them anymore.
"I love you," I hear myself say, my voice completely wrecked.
She leans down and kisses me hard, tears slipping down her cheeks now, mixing with mine.
"I love you too," she whispers against my mouth.
She keeps kissing me while I hold her tighter, both of us shaking, falling apart together in the middle of this bathroom floor.
And for the first time in my life, loving someone doesn’t feel like weakness.
It feels like the only thing keeping me alive.
* * *
The clock ticks down.
Twenty seconds.
Nineteen.
We’re about to win the game that sends the Reapers to the playoffs for the first time in franchise history.
Ever.
The fucking Reapers.
I barely register the crowd anymore. The game has been the hardest of my life. I have no idea how many goals I stopped. It feels like I was playing possessed.
Five, four, three…
The horn blows, and the arena erupts.
The arena explodes with noise and movement. Sticks bang against the boards. My teammates jump over the bench, tossing gloves and helmets everywhere.
You’d think we just won the fucking Cup; these guys are so riled up.
Nik is the first to rush at me, and seeing him almost knocks me over more than the game itself. Nikolai Ivanov, our captain and a guy with a scary reputation, is grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
The guys are all over me, pounding my helmet, punching my pads. Someone tackles me to the ice, and suddenly I’m trapped beneath a pile of giant, screaming men.
“Holy shit!”
“Playoffs, baby!”
“Cross is a fucking animal!”
It’s fucking bedlam. Eventually, the pile gets off me, and someone helps me up.
“You fucking beast,” Connor says. “You fucking machine of a man. Holy hell. I think you broke a fucking record tonight. They had more than seventy shots on goal, and you stopped every motherfucking one of them!”
“Was it really seventy?” I ask, still dazed.
“SEVENTY-TWO,” he screams directly into my face like that somehow helps.
Confetti starts raining from the rafters.
Actual fucking confetti.
People flood the ice in Reaper shirts and sneakers as a victory anthem blares over the loudspeakers. The whole arena feels like it’s vibrating.
Holy shit, what just happened?
Eventually, I manage to skate toward the tunnel. Before I can even get my helmet off, the media team swarms me.
That’s never happened before.
The media usually avoids me unless I punch somebody.
“Congrats on a record-breaking night, Hudson,” someone says. “How does it feel to set the division record for saves during the biggest win in franchise history?”
“I, uh, didn’t know I broke any record,” I say. "Cool, I guess?"
A few laughs from the reporters.
“Hudson, you’re thirty years old and suffered a major injury earlier in your career after winning a Cup out west. Did you ever think you’d be here again? Leading this team into the playoffs?”
I finally pull my mask off, sweat dripping down my neck.
“First of all,” I say, “thirty isn’t that old, so relax.”
That gets a bigger laugh.
“There were rumors you might retire this season,” another reporter pushes.
“Yeah? From who?”
“You took a leave of absence last month.”
I grimace.
“Players have lives outside hockey,” I say. “Sometimes shit happens.” I glance back toward the ice, still hearing the crowd roar. “But I’m happy to be here now. I owe a lot to this team. More than I can say.”
“Speaking of lives beyond the ice,” someone says, “Condolences on the loss of your brother. How are you doing, after losing your only remaining family member?”
“I miss him,” I say honestly. “A lot.” My voice roughens despite myself. “He would’ve loved this. Honestly, he probably would’ve been more excited about tonight than I am.”
The silence stretches just long enough for me to think the questions are over.
Then another reporter clears his throat.
“And what about the death of your uncle, Martin Cross? Did you know he was leading a criminal organization?”
The question hits like cold water.
“I, uh…” I clear my throat. “No. I didn’t.”
“But you were affiliated with the Iron Eagles motorcycle club, correct?”
Suddenly, the hallway feels hot and crowded.
Cameras.
Microphones.
Noise.
I can’t even tell who’s asking the questions anymore.
“I have no comment on my uncle or the club,” I say tightly.
My pulse starts hammering harder. Sweat cools against the back of my neck beneath my gear.
Before anyone can ask another question, one of the team’s PR guys steps in quickly.
“Alright, everybody,” he says with forced cheerfulness, clapping his hands once. “Let’s focus on the historic win tonight, yeah?”
A few reporters protest, but he’s already guiding me away by the arm.
Physically steering me down the hallway toward the locker rooms.
“Sorry about that,” he says once we’re out of range.
He's a twenty-something guy who looks like he weighs a buck-fifty soaking wet. I've never bothered learning his name because I'm usually the last player the PR department wants near a microphone.
At least, that was true until recently.
“Thanks, uh…”
“Jacob,” he replies quickly.
“Thanks, Jacob,” I say. “For ending that ambush.”
“They had no right asking about that stuff.”
“People are curious. It is what it is.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You just played the game of your life after losing your brother. You deserved one night where people talked about hockey instead of trauma.”
That surprises me.
I give him a small nod.
“Appreciate it.”
The locker room is absolute chaos when I walk in.
Music is blasting, guys are yelling, and someone is spraying beer across the room.
Connor stands shirtless on a bench, and no one really knows why.
No one notices me at first, and honestly, I’m relieved.
The official story is simple enough.
Family ties put me around the Iron Eagles, but hockey kept me away from the criminal side. Eva and I uncovered what both clubs were really doing after Martin abducted her. We went back for Lucian. Martin killed him before we could get him out.
The FBI already had an investigation underway.
We just gave them enough to finish it.
So far, the story is holding.
Thanks to Nik and Leanna, Eva and I walked away cleaner than we probably deserved.
Whether that lasts is another question.
A few teammates clap me on the shoulder as they head for the showers.
“Hell of a game, Cross.”
“See you at the bar.”
“You’d better actually come celebrate for once, asshole.”
I wave them off with a tired smile and my usual excuses.
I never go out after games.
Not before.
Definitely not now.
By the time I head back toward the front, most of the reporters are finally gone.
Eva is waiting near the family area with some of the wives and girlfriends.
Seeing her hits me harder than stopping seventy-two shots.
She looks incredible in fitted jeans and a Reapers shirt, the deep V-neck showing off her curves. Her red curls fall over her shoulders in messy waves, and as soon as she sees me, her whole face softens.
A strong, possessive feeling rushes through me.
I cross the hallway without thinking, pull her close, and kiss her so hard that a few people nearby start whistling and making fake choking sounds.
Eva laughs softly against my lips when we finally pull apart, both of us flushed and out of breath.
“Sorry,” I call over my shoulder.
Then I lean down close to her ear.
“I’m actually not sorry at all.”
“Congratulations, superstar,” she says as we walk down the hallway. “You were unbelievable tonight. You broke a record.”
I smile at her, but the feeling quickly fades.
“What?” she asks, suddenly concerned instead of excited.
“Nothing.” I shake my head once. “The media just asked about Lucian.” My throat tightens. “Asked how I was doing after losing him.”
“And?”
I stare ahead as we walk.
“I told them he would’ve lost his fucking mind over tonight.”
A rough, painful laugh escapes me. “He would have been waiting up or out here bouncing like a caffeinated bunny.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. Her arm is looped through mine, and she leans in, putting her head against my bicep. “He’d have been so proud of you.”
“He'd have wanted a full breakdown of every save. Every shot. Every missed pass.”
My throat tightens again.
“Probably would've talked for three straight hours.”
The ache in my chest is so strong I can hardly breathe.
I shake my head, swallowing hard.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “I miss him.”
Eva’s fingers tighten around my arm.
“Yeah,” Eva says, her voice thick with emotion as well. “Me too.”
We walk to the parking garage in silence. Eva unlocks the car as we get closer. The bright red Charger gleams as we get in, and when she starts the engine, Lucian’s favorite emo band is playing.
“Perfect,” I say, turning it up.