Page 71 of Puck Your Charity

The bus parks outside the luxury hotel.

I stand up and follow the team inside, resolute about what comes next. The time for hiding is over.

The private elevator doors slide open, spilling the starting line into the wide, carpeted hallway of the top floor.

We walk toward the penthouse suite in total silence. The adrenaline from the game crash-landed during the bus ride, leaving the guys bruised, exhausted, and running on fumes.

Malcolm unlocks the double doors and pushes them open.

We step into the sprawling, dim living room. The city skyline glows outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The quiet atmosphere feels like the deep breath right before a storm.

Finn drops his bag by the sofa. He catches my eye, offering a slow, encouraging nod. He grabs Lawrence by the back of his suit jacket and hauls him toward the kitchen area. Malcolm grabs his own duffel and heads straight for the master bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

They stick to the plan.

Victor steps inside the suite last. He unbuttons his suit jacket, his shoulders slumping with fatigue. He ignores the kitchen and the master bedroom, turning his boots toward the guest room at the end of the hall.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the lingering scent of his juniper.

I cross the living room, following right behind him. My sneakers make zero noise against the plush carpet.

Victor pushes the guest room door open and steps inside. He reaches up to loosen his silk tie, staring at the floor.

"We need to talk." I step into the doorframe.

Victor drops his hands from his tie. He turns around to face me. His icy blue eyes lock onto mine. He stands his ground, bracing himself for whatever I came to say.

"Finn said you asked for me." His voice sounds wrecked, raspy from shouting on the ice. "I just needed a minute to get my head straight before I knocked on the master suite door."

"I decided to come to you." I step into the room, pulling the door shut behind me.

The click of the latch echoes in the quiet space. We stand ten feet apart. The distance feels like miles.

I pull my phone out of my hoodie pocket. I unlock the screen, opening the text thread with Elena. The candid photo of Victor sitting in the hospital chair loads.

I turn the phone around, showing him the screen.

"Elena sent me this yesterday." I keep my voice steady, refusing to yell or hurl accusations. "She told me you went back. She said you apologized to Sam and spent an hour playing video games with him."

Victor stares at the glowing screen. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.

"I did." He drops his hands to his sides, the silk tie hanging loose around his neck.

"Why?" I take one small step forward. "You complained about the smell of the hospital on the first day. You ran out of his room looking like you wanted to vomit. What changed?"

Victor closes his eyes. He takes a deep, ragged breath. He drops the arrogant mask, the icy glare, and the untouchable ego. He stands in front of me exposed.

"The hospital triggered a panic attack." Victor opens his eyes, staring at me with complete vulnerability. "When I was five, my little sister got sick. Loren was only three. She spent months in a pediatric oncology ward just like that one."

My heart drops into my stomach.

"She had the exact same clear IV tubes." Victor grips the edge of the dresser next to him, his knuckles turning white. "The smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol brought it all back. I walked into Sam's room, and I felt like a helpless five-year-old watching my sister die all over again. I suffocated. I panicked."

Tears well in my eyes, blurring the edges of the room. The puzzle pieces lock together, forming a heartbreaking picture.

"I never got the therapy I needed back then." Victor admits the ugliest part of himself out loud. "I was too young to fully grieve or compartmentalize what happened. It all just turned into anger and a paralyzing fear of losing people. I use my temper to keep everyone away. Caring about people ends in a hospital room with a flatlining monitor. I decided a long time ago to be an asshole because nobody mourns an asshole. But then you showed up."

He looks at me, his blue eyes begging for forgiveness.