Page 110 of The Beautiful Collision
“Maya,” he breathes against my skin, and I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him there, letting myself have this moment of pure, uncomplicated want.
Of choosing him. Of being chosen back.
When we finally surface, we’re both panting harder than we were at the finish line. His forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us. His thumb traces circles on my hip where my shirt has ridden up, and each pass sends sparks straight through me.
“Just to clarify,” I say, still catching my breath against him, “that probably wasn’t appropriate behavior for the event coordinator.”
He laughs, low and rough against my ear. “Pretty sure I saw at least three volunteers getting an eyeful.”
“Great.” I pull back enough to see his face. “Maybe we should make it part of the fundraising strategy. Twenty bucks to watch us make out against the fence.”
“We’d hit a million by noon,” he says, and my heart sings when I hear the easy confidence back in his voice. “Though I think that violates university policies.”
“So, bad news… we’ll need to share a bed now,” I inform him, finding my footing in the familiar territory of our banter. “Your old room is my yoga studio.”
His laugh is real this time, full and warm and exactly what I’ve been missing. And, as we stand there as the cleanup continues around us, two people who ran three miles to find their way back to each other, I know it’s not perfect. I know there’s more to work through, more conversations to have, and more trust to rebuild.
But it’s a start.
forty
MAINE
The locker roomhums with something more sacred than pre-game energy.
It’s the quiet electricity that comes with knowing you’re about to step onto the ice for the last time as a college player. For the last time withyourteam. My chest tightens with a feeling I can’t quite name—something between grief and gratitude, loss and love.
I finish wrapping tape around my stick. Black tape, overlapping perfectly, the way I’ve done it a thousand times before. But this is the last time I’ll do it in this locker room, wearing this jersey, with these guys who’ve become more than teammates.
They’ve become family.
Across the room, Mike sits perfectly still in front of his locker. He’s not moving, not talking, just staring at his nameplate like he’s trying to memorize it. After years of carrying this team on his shoulders—a journey that included a detour into his own depression after an injury and the fight to come back again—he’s ready.
I think about all the times he’s picked me up. The night he dragged me off a barstool when I was too drunk to stand. Themorning he found me sleeping in the rink because I couldn’t afford heat in my apartment. The day he told me, with brutal honesty, exactly how badly I’d fucked up with Maya.
Thank you,I want to say.For all of it.
But the words stick in my throat.
Because Mike and me… we’re the last of our core group, which included Linc, now in the NHL, and Dec, now at a gallery in Europe. The guys who’ve been here since the beginning, who remember when we couldn’t win a game to save our lives.
Who’ve grown up together, on this ice and off it, in ways that go beyond hockey.
And now it’s time to pass the torch.
Rook’s at his stall, methodically stretching. No jokes, no running commentary about which puck bunny he’s planning to celebrate with later. His usual chaotic energy has been honed to a razor’s edge, all that manic humor compressed into pure competitive focus.
Because he knows he’s next in line to be captain when Mike and I are gone.
And the rest of them?
Cooper’s taping his ankles with surgical precision, because of course he is. Schmidt’s on a video call with his girlfriend, whipped as always. Martinez is bouncing on his toes, all that quiet energy ready to explode. Even Kellerman, our perpetually terrified sophomore, looks ready to run through a wall.
And in about ten minutes, we’re going to play our last game together.
The weight of it should be crushing, but instead, I feel... light.
Because the past few weeks with Maya have been a masterclass in learning how to be honest—with her, with myself, with everyone. We’ve had conversations that felt like emotional root canals, digging out all the rot and infection of our lies, and then rebuilt.
