Page 51 of Puck Your Charity

I squirm in my seat, crossing my legs to create friction against my aching clit. I feel like an absolute mess. I bite my lower lip to stifle a distressed whine. Watching my Alphas act like ruthless, territorial predators triggers every dormant submission instinct in my system. They own the ice. They dominate the competition. And I belong to them.

The game continues for three grueling periods. I watch them bleed, sweat, and fight for every inch of the rink. They take hits and deliver worse punishment in return. The violence becomes a mesmerizing, intoxicating dance. I stop caring about the risk of injury. I stop thinking about my sensible, curated life. I just want the game to end so I can drag the four of them into a dark, quiet room and let them tear my clothes off.

The final buzzer blares over the speakers. The red numbers on the jumbotron show a victory for the Iron Wolves. The crowd screams, tossing hats onto the ice.

Sloane claps her hands, a huge grin on her face. "Three to two! Victor scored all three goals for a hat trick. A clean win in regulation time means they skip overtime and secure their playoff spot."

The lead security guard steps up to the leather couch. "Ms. Blanchard. Time to go. We need to beat the crowd to the tunnels."

I nod, my legs trembling as I stand up. My jeans stick to my thighs. My skin burns with a hot flush.

Sloane stands up and gives me an encouraging hug, her warm scent wrapping around me like a blanket. "Go get 'em, honey. You survived your first hockey game."

Rhett and Bennett offer warm nods as the security guard escorts me out of the VIP box.

We take the private elevator down to the basement level of the arena. The concrete tunnels smell like cold ice, stale beer, and exhaust fumes from the Zamboni machines. Staff members rush past us, carrying equipment bags and water coolers.

One guard goes into the locker room pushing up a set of double doors. A painted Iron Wolves logo decorates the metal.

"Wait here." The other guard crosses his arms and stands next to me.

The adrenaline from the game still buzzes in my ears. The muffled sounds of cheering and shouting echo through the thick steel doors. The team celebrates the win inside the locker room.

The doors swing open.

A thick, intoxicating scent cloud rolls into the hallway. The aroma of aggressive, triumphant Alpha pheromones hits my lungs. Crisp citrus, crackling ozone, rich cedar, spicy black pepper, and juniper blend into a dark, musky perfume.

Finn, Lawrence, and Malcolm step out of the locker room. They wear gray team-issued tracksuits. Their hair looks wet from the showers. Dark bruises purple on their jawlines andsplit lips prove the brutality of the game. They ride the intense high of the victory.

Finn spots me standing against the concrete wall. His dark eyes flash.

He crosses the hallway in three long strides. He wraps his huge arms around my waist, hauling me off my feet. He buries his face in the crook of my neck. He inhales my sweet apple pie scent with a rough, vibrating groan.

"You smell incredible." His breath ghosts against my skin, his chest heaving. "You smell perfect for us."

Malcolm steps up right behind him. He rests his broad hand on the back of my head, anchoring me in place. His dark eyes sweep over my flushed cheeks and my trembling frame.

Lawrence crowds my other side. He leans in and presses a hot kiss to my jaw. He tastes like sweat and mint. "Did you like the show, Olive? Did you like watching your pack win?"

"I liked it." I breathe the confession into Finn's shoulder.

They purr. The deep, rumbling sound vibrates in their chests, surrounding me in a cocoon of territorial satisfaction.

Amidst the high-energy celebration, my eyes flick toward the locker room doors.

Victor steps out into the hallway. He wears a black athletic shirt and dark sweatpants. A fresh, bloody cut slices across his cheekbone. He carries a huge canvas hockey bag slung over his shoulder.

He stays on the periphery of the group. He doesn't join the embrace.

I watch his icy blue eyes. They look dark and blown out with raw hunger. His chest rises and falls in jagged breaths. The juniper of his scent spikes with a desperate craving. He wants to step forward. He wants to bury his nose in my neck and inhale my scent just like Finn and Lawrence.

He forces his boots to stay planted on the concrete. He fights his own instincts, battling his urges to give me space. He keeps the boundary intact.

Victor shifts his weight. The canvas hockey bag slips off his shoulder and hits the floor. The zipper slides open a few inches.

I glance down at the gap in the canvas. A stack of paperback books spills out against the concrete.

My breath catches in my throat. The bold lettering on the cover stands out under the harsh fluorescent lights.Managing Rage: A Guide for Alphas,Unpacking Childhood Trauma, andThe Psychology of Forgiveness.