Page 71 of The Beautiful Collision
So I try to split the defense, to make the highlight-reel play that’ll erase all my mistakes. I push forward, threading between two defenders, and for a second I think I’ve got it. Then their third defender steps up, catches me with my head down, and absolutely destroys me.
It’s a clean hit, but it sends me cartwheeling to the ice. I land hard, my helmet bouncing off the ice, stars exploding across my vision. The crowd makes that collective “ooh” sound that accompanies particularly brutal hits, the kind everyone says they’re concerned about removing from the game but secretly love.
I lie there for a moment, not because I’m hurt—though my bell is definitely rung—but because I don’t want to get up. I want the ice to open up and swallow me whole. Take me down to whatever hockey hell exists for players who forget how to play.
“Are you OK?” The referee is leaning over me, concern on his face.
I wave him off and struggle to my feet. The crowd gives me a pity applause, that patronizing clap they give when someone manages to leave under their own power, and I make it to the bench just as Coach is about to send someone over the boards in my place.
“You’re done,” he says, not even looking at me.
“Coach, I?—“
“You’re done. Sit your ass down until the game is over.”
The finality in his voice is absolute.
I’m being benched.
The ultimate humiliation for a player of my caliber.
twenty-five
MAYA
The game has goneto complete shit, and Maine is the primary architect of the disaster.
I sit in the freezing stands, watching his third catastrophic play in a row, and something cold and heavy settles in my stomach. This isn’t Maine. That man is nowhere to be found. Instead, there’s this hollow-eyed stranger on the ice who can’t seem to remember how to hold a hockey stick.
From my spot, I have a perfect view of his walk-of-shame as Coach Pearson yanks him from the game. The arena feels like it’s holding its breath—thousands of people witnessing his complete unraveling in real-time—and he seems to shrink under the weight of collective disappointment.
He drops onto the bench like his legs have given out, positioning himself at the far end, as far from his teammates as possible while still technically being part of the team. The isolation is deliberate and calculated. He’s building walls in real-time, and I recognize the move because I’ve done it myself.
“What the hell is going on with him?” Sophie whispers beside me, her breath visible in the cold air. Her voice carries that particular blend of shock and secondhand-embarrassment thatcomes from watching someone you know completely implode in public. “He’s usually great.”
The statement triggers something protective and fierce in my chest. I’ve been watching Maine for weeks now, but at home rather than in the public view. I can tell when he’s exhausted, when not even his performative energy can hide it, and I’m seeing it in him today.
“He’s exhausted, Sophie,” I say, my voice low and urgent, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Something is wrong.”
My clinical training kicks in, cataloging symptoms like I’m reviewing a patient chart: chronic fatigue, decreased performance, social withdrawal, and the weight loss I’ve noticed lately. Combined, it’s the recipe for a guy who’s falling apart, even if he won’t admit it or tell others.
Sophie turns to look at me, really look at me, and I see the moment she registers that this isn’t casual concern. Her eyebrows draw together, creating that little crease between them that appears when she’s processing something important.
“You’re right,” she says slowly, then leans closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper, like she’s about to share state secrets. “Mike told me something. He made me promise not to spread it around, but… this has been going on for months.”
My heart rate picks up. “What has?”
“It’s money.” The words are simple, but they land like a punch to my solar plexus. “Maine’s broke. Like, seriously broke. You know he was struggling to pay the bills and working multiple jobs before you moved in, but it hasn’t really let up. Mike told me he’s been sending money home for his sister’s medical bills…”
Jesus Christ, the revelation crashes over me. I didn’t even notice.
Shame burns hot in my throat. I’d been so wrapped up in my family drama, my wounds, and my growing feelings for him that I missed the signs of his struggle. The man who sat on our kitchen floor while I sobbed, who held me without question or judgment, has been drowning right in front of me.
I knew he was working hard and feeling weighed down by his family…
But this?
Holy shit.
