Page 27 of The Beautiful Collision
My swing is chaos. The ball screams sideways, nearly hitting the range’s ball dispenser before vanishing. I drop the club with a clatter. Force the trademarked Maine Hamilton grin—all teeth and no soul—because it’s time to change the narrative before this becomes the story that follows me all season.
“You know what?” I spread my arms wide, going full preacher. “You’re absolutely right. My golf game’s fucked. But you know what games I never lose?”
Mike groans. “Here we go.”
“Hockey, and women.” I let confidence saturate every word. “Hitting a little white ball? Whatever. But women? It’s about the game. And I don’t lose.”
Rook studies me with the intensity he reserves for reading shooters on breakaways. “Is that so?”
I don’t like the false innocence in his voice, but I’m pot committed now, and—more importantly—the guys aren’t focused on my golf swing. “Yep,” I say.
Rook’s eyes lock onto mine, and I know where this is headed. “Yet after three weeks rooming with campus royalty, you’re still flying solo?”
The words land hard. My jaw tightens, but I keep the grin in place, cocky and bulletproof. “Playing the long game,” I say.
“Long game?” Rook laughs. “Or no game?”
Heat crawls up my neck. The truth sits right there—that Maya has been systematically destroying my sanity one pair of yoga shorts at a time. That I’ve been jerking off to the thought of her morning stretches. That I’ve memorized exactly how her tank top rides up when she reaches for the high shelves.
But admitting that?
No way.
The words launch before I can stop them. “I could have her begging for me.”
The silence has weight. Even the range seems to pause.
Rook grins slowly and dangerously. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely.”
Shut up, shut up, my brain screams, but my mouth keeps going.
He turns to our audience. “Gentlemen! Maine Hamilton just raised the stakes!”
My stomach drops, because the showman has just become the show.
“Our golden boy,” Rook announces, “claims he can make Maya Hayes—theMaya Hayes—fall desperately in love with him.”
“Love?” My voice cracks. “Nobody said?—“
“Oh, my mistake.” Rook wheels back, eyes bright. “You meant a quick fuck? Because half the Eastern seaboard has that merit badge. No, you said ‘begging for me.’ Those are feelings, brother. That’s the real thing. That’s Sunday brunch and meeting the parents.”
Jesus Christ.
I’m instantly regretting going down this path, but I won’t turn back.
Because Maine Hamilton is all gas, no brakes.
“So here’s the wager,” Rook addresses the group. “Hamilton makes Maya fall for him by the last day of finals, or he pays out a hundred bucks to every man who backs it.”
Blood drains from my face. My knees actually wobble. A hundred dollars. Per head. With six takers minimum, that’s $600 I don’t have, when I’ve only just gotten out from under the mountain of shit that paying for a two-bedroom apartment solo put me under.
“Guys, maybe we should forget about it…” Mike’s voice pierces the bubble of bravado, but his eyes are locked on me. “That’s a lot of money.”
I appreciate Mike’s save, but I can’t abide the eye-rolls and snorts of derision that follow it. To these guys, I’m the ringleader of chaos, the chief joker, the head prefect of piling shit relentlessly on others. And backing down would be more than just keeping money in my pocket. It would be giving up my crown to Rook.
“It’s a bet,” I say, before my mind can talk me out of it. “Who’s in?”
