Page 16 of The Beautiful Collision
Banter and ego.
“I bring twenty hockey players over after every home game,” I fire back, finding my footing. “Dudes who smell like jockstraps fucked a dead raccoon, eating everything that’s not nailed down. Are you going to cry about toxic masculinity, or can you hang?”
Something shifts in her expression, and the smallest hint of a smirk appears. It’s not quite approval, but maybe the Maya Hayes equivalent, like a shark deciding you’re not worth eating just yet. And, suddenly, this heavyweight fight between campus bigshots feels a bit less one-sided.
“As long as they’re gone by morning, and don’t try to sleep with me.” She snorts. “I have standards, and hockey players just… no…”
The negotiation goes on as we lock eyes across the scratched table—two apex predators figuring out territory. The air between us isn’t hostile, not exactly, but it sure as hell isn’t friendly, either. It’s clear this is the compromise we’re both needing to make because we’re all out of choices.
She crosses her legs, denim whispering promises I have no business thinking about. Christ. This is a business meeting. A humiliating, soul-crushing business meeting for me, because I’m broke. So now we’re circling each other and determining if we can share space.
“Sex,” she says, and the word hangs between us.
I almost choke on my coffee. “What about it?”
“I bring guys home—different ones, sometimes more than one, and never the same twice.” She pauses, seeing how I’ll react. But when I keep my face neutral, she continues. “They don’t sleep over, because I don’t want them using my towels or eating my Greek yoghurt. Is that going to be a problem?”
“Why would it be?”
“Because they’re in and they’re out,” she says. “And, for some guys, that would seem like an opportunity even if they’re not invited.”
The bluntness is designed to shock, but honey, I’ve been playing this game since I figured out making girls laugh was the express lane to getting them naked. I’m done with feeling uncomfortable, so it’s time to remind her she’s not the only one with a reputation.
“Likewise.” I spread my arms wider, reclaiming some real estate. “I have all the women I want, frequently, never for breakfast, and on a three-date maximum, so there’s no danger of me hitting on your designer ass, because I sense you’d be a lot more work than I’m willing to put in.”
“I wouldn’t be easy, you mean?”
I shrug. “The apartment is a no-judgment, no-feelings zone.”
She studies me with the intensity of someone deciding where to hide my body. “Good. Next, my clinical rotations are brutal, and my hours are chaotic.”
“I play hockey.” I grin. “Try practice at eight, followed by a day of classes, then an away game, then finally into bed at midnight.”
Then she does something I don’t expect. She laughs. “Honestly, college schedules should qualify as an Olympic sport. Logistical nightmare.”
The comment hits differently than expected. It’s sharp, self-aware, funnier than anything I expected from someone who’s been interrogating me. And suddenly I’m not looking at the intimidating reputation or the frankly criminal ass or the way her sweater clings to her curves.
I’m seeing the brain that treats chaos like fun.
My chest goes tight, pulse hammering, and that familiar heat starts low in my gut—the one that usually means I’m about to do something spectacularly stupid with someone I definitely shouldn’t touch.
This is catastrophically bad, my mind offers.
Because Maya Hayes isn’t just some hot party girl who I desperately need to contribute to my rent. She’s brilliant. The kind of smart that sees through my bullshit and categorizes it by molecular structure. The kind that makes my usual moves look like a peewee player trying to deke Gretzky.
She’s not just out of my league, she’s playing a different sport and we both know it. While I’m over here with my communications degree and a bank account that’s flatter than day-old beer, she’s the hot chick who graduated from the best schools and has the richest family anyone around here has heard of.
So why the fuck does she need to live with me?
Mike told me that she’s having a spat with her parents, but is that all?
But before I can think about it more, she continues. “Utilities split even, groceries separate except for communal basics, and common areas stay neutralandclean.”
I nod.
“No touching each other’s stuff, no remarks about each other’s choices, and absolutely no developing feelings. Think you can handle all that?”
The last part hits hard. Maybe she caught me staring, or noticed how I’m gripping the table like it’s the only thing keeping me from floating away. But I’ve got a reputation to maintain, and I’m practically hard over how this woman turns rental agreements into foreplay.
