Page 69 of Puck Your Charity

Looking down at his taped hockey stick, he takes a slow, deep breath to pull his chaotic scent back under control. The sour tang of regret fades, replaced by a focused, chilled juniper.

He nods once. "Tonight."

"Tonight." Squeezing his shoulder, I let go. "Now get your head in the game. We have a playoff match to win."

Turning to walk out of the stick-prep room, the tension in my neck vanishes. Setting the wheels in motion feels good, and even though earning her forgiveness falls entirely on his shoulders now, I finally forced him to step up to the plate.

Chapter 21

The away arena vibrates with a deafening, hostile roar.

I sit in the private family box high above the ice, surrounded by the Omega wives and girlfriends of the Clearwater Rooks. The atmosphere up here mirrors the hostility down on the rink. The local fans scream insults, bang their fists against the plexiglass, and spill cheap beer on the concrete steps. The noise constantly rings in my ears.

A blonde Omega sitting in the leather seat next to me leans over. She wears a tight red dress and balances a plastic cup of white wine in her manicured hand. Her scent smells like cloying caramel.

"You look a little tense in that big sweater." She looks me up and down. Her voice drips with fake sympathy.

"Is this your first away game? Our boys tend to play a little rough." She smirks, taking a sip of her wine.

"I can handle rough." I keep my hands tucked into the front pocket of my oversized gray Iron Wolves hoodie.

"I just prefer watching actual hockey instead of cheap hits." I turn my attention back to the ice, refusing to let her bait me.

She sniffs, looking highly offended, and turns back to her friends to whisper something under her breath.

Down on the ice, the Iron Wolves battle through a brutal, punishing game. The Rooks play dirty. They throw elbows, slam our guys into the boards, and start fights after every whistle.

The high-stakes hockey match serves as intense background noise for my racing thoughts. My stomach twists into a tight, anxious knot. My leg bounces against the carpeted floor.

I spent the entire day preparing for what comes after the final buzzer.

This morning over room service, I pulled Finn, Malcolm, and Lawrence aside and laid it all out. I told them I needed to talk to Victor tonight, just the two of us. I needed them to clear out of the penthouse the second we got back from the game so we could finally figure this out.

They didn't even argue. They just promised to make themselves scarce.

Now, the anticipation eats me alive.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the edge of the private box partition. My eyes lock onto the blond center skating across the ice.

Victor looks ruthless tonight. He hasn't lost a single ounce of his vicious edge on the rink. If anything, the playoffs make him meaner.

A Rooks defenseman cross-checks him hard against the glass right in front of our bench. The impact echoes through the stadium.

I gasp, my fingers gripping the padded armrest.

"Looks like Sterling finally got what was coming to him." The blonde Omega leans forward, laughing a high-pitched, annoying sound.

"He always skates like an arrogant prick. Glad to see him eat the ice." She taps her plastic cup against her friend's cup in a mock toast.

A fierce, protective thrill flares in my chest. A heavy dose of protective adrenaline hums under my skin.

"He's setting up a play." I hold her gaze, making sure my voice stays dead level.

"And your guy just took the bait." I lean back in my leather seat.

Victor hits the ice. He slides on his side, his stick clattering away. The Rooks player stands over him, shouting an obvious taunt.

The old Victor would drop his gloves and throw a blind tantrum, eating penalty minutes just to prove a point.