Page 67 of Puck Your Charity

Olive climbs into a wide, plush leather captain's chair, kicking her sneakers off and curling her legs up underneath her. Pulling the gray hoodie tight around her knees, she looks tiny sitting in the middle of all this corporate luxury, but she also looks exactly where she belongs.

I take the seat directly across from her.

"Comfortable?" I watch her sink into the cushioning.

"My old car seats feel like concrete compared to this." She traces the stitching on the armrest. "I feel like royalty."

"Get used to it." Lawrence drops into the seat next to me. He flashes a bright grin. "You roll with the starting line now. We travel in style."

The engines roar to life, sending a vibration humming through the floorboards.

Watching her strap the seatbelt across her waist settles my nerves. Seeing her travel with us, wearing my clothes with official league clearance, fixes the anxious itch in my blood. We got our mate sorted out, and now we just have to win a few hockey games.

The team bus drops us off at a towering luxury hotel in the center of Clearwater.

Management booked the entire top floor for the starting line. Securing a sprawling, multi-room penthouse suite keeps us isolated from the media, crazed fans, and the rest of the roster, providing a secure, controlled environment.

Stepping out of the private elevator, we haul our bags down the wide, carpeted hallway.

I push the double doors of the penthouse open. The space looks like an architectural magazine spread, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a staggering view of the city skyline. An enormous living room features a wraparound leather sectional, a sleek wet bar, and a dining table big enough to seat ten people. Four separate bedrooms branch off from the main area.

"I claim the master suite." Lawrence tosses his designer duffel onto the sofa. "The bathroom has a soaking tub."

"We share the master." Malcolm walks past him carrying Olive's bags. "The room holds a California King. It fits four people easily."

Stopping in the middle of the living room, Olive looks around the expansive space with her hands tucked into the pockets of her hoodie to process the sheer scale of the wealth on display.

Victor walks through the front door last, bypassing the group to head straight down the hallway. He turns into the farthest guest bedroom, and the door clicks shut behind him, sealing him inside his self-imposed isolation.

A tense, awkward silence falls over the living room.

Olive pulls her hands out of her pockets and stares at his closed door. "I need to unpack." She follows Malcolm toward the master suite. "Living out of a suitcase drives me crazy. I need to put things in drawers."

I follow them into the main bedroom.

The space features dark wood furniture and crisp white linens. Wasting zero time, Olive unzips her duffel bag on the edge ofthe mattress and pulls out stacks of folded t-shirts, leggings, and socks. She crosses the room to the large mahogany dresser and starts assigning drawers with rapid, focused efficiency.

Grabbing her toiletry bag, she heads into the huge marble bathroom to line her toothbrush, face wash, and moisturizer up in a perfectly straight row on the vanity counter.

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest to watch the pack dynamics play out.

Lawrence walks into the bedroom carrying a tray of iced waters and a plate of fresh fruit he ordered from room service. Setting the food on the nightstand, he offers Olive a charming, easy smile and cracks a joke about the ridiculous size of the bathtub, pulling a genuine laugh from her lips.

Stepping up behind her while she folds a sweater, Malcolm rests a large hand on the small of her back. The silent, grounding touch eases the tension in her shoulders, and she leans back into his palm for a fraction of a second to absorb his quiet strength.

They buzz around her, providing comfort and structure, but a glaring fracture ruins the picture.

Victor stays locked in that guest room. Despite the electric high of the playoff run, he radiates a bitter, suffocating misery. The sour tang of his chilled juniper scent bleeds under his door and drifts into the living room, proving that keeping a wide berth just causes more damage instead of protecting her.

Playing goalie means my entire career relies on seeing the whole ice. I track the puck, predict the passes, and anticipate the weak spots in our defense before the other team exploits them, and I bring that same vision to my pack.

Olive looks happy when Lawrence makes her laugh and calm when Malcolm touches her, but her brown eyes constantly drift toward the hallway. Her gaze searches for the icy blond center who refuses to show his face. The rejection hurts her, adding a layer of stressed apple pie to her scent.

A fractured pack loses hockey games, and we play a brutal team tonight.

The opposing roster thrives on aggressive, punishing hits, so surviving the first round requires total synchronization on the ice. If Victor skates onto the rink distracted by his own guilt, he ruins our offensive line. Hesitating for half a second because his head is stuck in a hotel room will cost us goals

Fixing this mess falls on my shoulders. Smoothing over the rough patches and repairing the broken bridges remains my job. Victor has hidden enoughbehind his trauma and his books. Confronting him in the hotel suite risks a shouting match Olive doesn't need to hear, so I plan to corner him at the arena before the game tonight.