Page 74 of Puck Your Charity

Victor wraps his arms around me, pulling me tight against his side as we roll over. He keeps his knot secure inside my body, refusing to let the intimate connection break. He reaches down and pulls the thick gray quilt over our bare shoulders, shielding us from the cool air conditioning blowing from the ceiling vent.

He tucks my head under his chin. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath. His large hand strokes up and down my bare spine, offering a soothing, rhythmic comfort.

"I'm never letting you go." He presses a warm, lingering kiss to the top of my head, his voice full of absolute conviction. "I swear I will spend the rest of my life making up for the things I said."

"You already did." I close my eyes, burying my face in the crook of his neck. "You proved who you are tonight."

"You complete this pack." He breathes the words into my dark hair, holding me tighter against his side. "You, Malcolm, Lawrence, Finn, and me. We belong together."

We lie in the quiet guest room, content and exhausted. Our pack feels complete, and for the first time since my presentation flipped my life upside down, I feel at peace.

Chapter 22

The freezing water of the ice bath bites into my skin. Six weeks of playoff hockey strips a man down to his bare bones. We survived the first two rounds of the Alpha Cup playoffs, but the brutal toll shows on all of us. Lawrence sports a row of black stitches over his left eyebrow. Finn deals with a bruised knee he tapes up before every single game. My shoulders throb with a deep, persistent ache.

April turned into late May in a blur of endless flights and hostile arenas. We spend our lives on private airplanes, in cramped visitor locker rooms, and in away-city hotels. The opposing teams get bigger and hit harder the deeper we go into the bracket. Surviving requires focus and ruthless aggression.

Olive changed the entire dynamic of our travel schedule. She stopped acting like a guest and started acting like the center of our pack.

We landed in Kelrem to play the Kings for the start of Round Three two days ago. Management booked the usual luxury penthouse suite for the starting line. Walking through the double doors after a brutal practice, the space lacked the sterile feel of a hotel room. It smelled like home.

Olive took charge of the master bedroom. She dragged every spare duvet, down pillow, and throw blanket off the other beds in the suite. She piled them into the center of the California King mattress, creating a structured nest. She raided our gear bags. She took our worn, sweat-stained practice jerseys and wove the fabric into the perimeter of the blankets.

The combination of ozone, black pepper, and juniper creates a thick wall of scent around her. She sits right in the middle of it, radiating sweet apple pie.

It grounds us. Coming back to a hotel room used to feel empty and isolating. Now, we walk through the door and the tension bleeds right out of my neck. We strip our expensive travel suits off and crawl into that nest with her. We surround her, absorbing her calm energy.

She refuses to sit there waiting for us to entertain her. Her practical healthcare background kicked into high gear the second the playoffs started. She watches us take hits on the ice, and she channels her worry into taking care of us off the rink. She orders nutrient-dense meals from room service, banning the greasy junk food Lawrence tries to sneak into the suite. She stands in the middle of the living room and forces Finn to stretch his bad knee, counting the seconds out loud while he groans in protest.

She yells at Victor when he tries to skip icing his sore wrist. He listens to her. He drops his arrogant attitude and sits on the couch with the ice pack, watching her with total devotion.

We function as a perfect unit. The hostility from a month ago vanished.

The jet lag messes with our sleep schedules. We fly across time zones, playing games every other night. The exhaustion sinks deep into our bones. In the past, we relied on caffeine and sheer willpower to get through Round Three. We burned ourselves out before the Finals even started.

This year feels different. Olive provides a specific kind of care.

I step out of the ice bath in the hotel bathroom. The freezing water numbs the worst of the bruises along my ribs. I grab a towel and dry off. Wrapping the white cotton around my waist, I walk out into the dim master bedroom.

Olive kneels in the center of her nest. She wears one of my dark gray t-shirts. The collar hangs off one shoulder, exposing her smooth skin. She holds a small bottle of massage oil in her hands. The lights stay low. The thick blackout curtains block the afternoon sun.

She looks up when I walk in. Her brown eyes track the dark bruises spreading across my ribs.

"You took a massive hit into the boards during the second period last night." She pats the mattress right in front of her. "Sit down. Your muscles look like knotted rope."

I walk over to the edge of the bed. I drop the towel and climb onto the mattress wearing a pair of black boxer briefs. I sit with my back to her, crossing my legs over the thick blankets.

Her small, warm hands press into my shoulders. The contrast between her soft touch and the violence of the hockey rink hits me hard. I let my head drop forward. I surrender my weight to her hands.

She pours a drop of oil onto her palms. She rubs them together and presses the slick heat into my skin. Her thumbs dig into the tight muscles at the base of my neck.

"You carry too much tension up here, Mal." She pushes her thumbs deep into the knots. "You spend the entire game throwing your body in front of people."

"It keeps the puck away from Finn." I let out a rough sigh as her fingers work a stubborn knot near my spine.

"I know." She leans forward, pressing a soft kiss against my shoulder blade. "But you need to let me take care of you off the ice."

The quiet devotion in her voice stirs a deep, possessive ache in my chest. I spend my life protecting this pack. Having someone insist on protecting me feels strange, but I crave the attention. I crave her. The grind of the playoffs fades away, leaving just the two of us in the quiet sanctuary she built.