Page 17 of The Beautiful Collision
“Please.” I scoff, mining for bravado in the wasteland of my dignity. “I’m emotionally unavailable by design. Check my Google reviews.”
She tilts her head, those eyes dissecting my bullshit with ruthless efficiency. For a second I’m positive she’ll call me on it—point out that I’m currently having more feelings than a Hallmark movie marathon, and desperate enough to seek a roommate via his friend’s girlfriend’s social network—but she just nods.
“Perfect,” she says, assuming she’s got the gig before I even confirm it, like she’s never been denied anything by anyone in her life. “Then we have a deal.”
She stands in one fluid motion that shorts out what’s left of my brain, her body a study in compact, concentrated intimidation. She looks down at me—actuallydown, despite me almost being taller sitting than she is standing—and I swear she’s mentally filing me under ‘Hamilton, Maine; Disaster; Hot.’
“I’ll text you my move-in logistics,” she says, giving me the ghost of a smile. “Try not to do anything that requires bail money or an ambulance between now and then, because interviewing one emotionally stunted man-child ismorethan enough.”
“No promises,” I manage, but she’s already walking away, that ponytail swinging with each step.
I watch her leave because I’m weak and she’s got an ass that could make a priest reconsider his career choices. The bell chimes her exit, abandoning me with cold coffee and the crushing realization that I’ve just signed up to ride a tornado.
This was supposed to be simple. Find a roommate. Split rent. Avoid homelessness. Basic shit that even my last functioning brain cell could handle without adult supervision. But, instead, I’m replaying the exact way her voice dropped an octave on “sex”.
And one thing becomes crystal fucking clear: I haven’t solved my problem.
I’ve traded it for the one person on Earth who can match my energy.
Because Maya Hayes isn’t just a roommate. She’s a natural disaster in designer denim, a woman who could destroy me without smudging her lipstick or breaking a nail. And I just invited her to share my living space, my utility bills, and what’s left of my sanity after four years of Division I hockey.
And the truly fucked part?
I’m already counting down the minutes until she moves in.
six
MAYA
As I knockon the door, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake.
The industrial-grade carpet outside apartment 4B has threadbare patches revealing concrete scars beneath. And, as I stand frozen, Sophie hovers at my elbow, radiating that specific brand of supportive energy friends emit when watching you drive straight into a wall when they’ve sworn not to grab the wheel.
“You can still back out,” she whispers, even though we both know that ship has sailed, because my credit cards are bouncing and my apartment is packed.
“I have precisely one option left that doesn’t involve selling a kidney,” I say. “Living with Maine.”
Hockey god.
Campus legend.
Owner of an ass that could kill and a laugh that could resurrect the victims.
My stomach churns with volcanic warnings that have nothing to do with the three shots of espresso I mainlined this morning. Those were strategic armor, designed to fortify me for this catastrophe, standing outside the lair of the man who’s just opened the door.
“Hayes! Perfect timing!” Maine fills the doorway, his grin illuminating the whole hallway. He’s wearing basketball shorts that predate several presidencies and a Pine Barren Devils t-shirt featuring ventilation holes that definitely weren’t factory-installed. “Come on in! The guys are just?—“
The smell hits with testosterone tsunami force, so aggressively, so triumphantly male. Like someone weaponized the concept of “dude” and crop-dusted it. But at least he’s gone to some effort, because there’s a faint scent of pine fighting a losing battle.
“—finishing this boss fight,” Maine continues, blissfully unaware of my olfactory trauma. “Mike! Rook! Get your lazy asses vertical and help with boxes!”
I force what I hope is a passable smile and trail him inside, the living room unfolding before me like a cautionary tale. There’s a blood-red leather sectional that could comfortably seat the entire hockey team facing a television so massive I’m genuinely concerned about the load-bearing capacity of that wall.
Yep, that confirms it.
This is rock bottom, with a cable sports package and a communal bong.
“Just dump everything in that corner for now,” Maine gestures vaguely toward a space already colonized by hockey equipment. “We’ll figure it out.”
