18. Victor
Isit behind the steering wheel of my green Aston Martin. The engine remains off. I stare at the brick building across the street. The discreet brass plaque next to the glass door reads Dr. Aris, Trauma Counseling.
I drag my hands down my face, letting out a long exhale.
I'm exhausted. My brain feels fried from the last hour inside that office.
For the first time in twenty years, I spoke my little sister's name out loud.
I sat on a therapist's couch and talked about Loren.
When she got sick. How my parents reacted to her illness left me feeling like I was an accessory in their life, to how I was alone with her when she died because they had stepped out of the room for a moment to grab food for me from the cafeteria.
I always felt guilt for that, because they weren't there, and I think a part of them also blamed me for taking that moment away from them because I existed.
We've never been close since then. It's the deepest I've ever delved into the past.
Talking about it sucked. It left me sweating and shaking. I paid a ridiculous amount of money to sit on a designer couch and dig around in the worst memories of my life.
But now, sitting in the quiet of my car, the pressure in my chest finally recedes.
The realization hits me. The pediatric oncology ward didn't trigger a random panic attack. The scent of sterile rubbing alcohol and the sight of clear IV tubes dragged me right back to that day. I panicked because I felt like a helpless, alone kid watching my sister die all over again.
I grip the steering wheel. The leather squeaks under my knuckles.
Understanding the fear doesn't excuse my actions. It just highlights the mess I made.
I let my temper dictate my life for over a decade.
I used arrogance to keep people at arm's length because caring about them meant I could lose them.
Loren died, and my world shattered. I decided right then to never let anyone get close enough to hurt me again.
Being an untouchable prick on the ice translated into being a lonely asshole off the ice.
I ran away from a ten-year-old boy. I abandoned Sam on his Make-A-Wish day. I acted like a spoiled prick in that hallway to cover up my terror. I used my anger as a shield, hurting a sick kid and insulting Olive.
The memory of Olive standing outside that room flashes in my mind. She glared at me with absolute disgust. She saw a coward, and I proved her right. She didn't care about my bank account or my stats on the ice. She cared about the kid in that bed.
I turn the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life.
I spent the last two weeks hiding in the west wing of the mansion. I read paperbacks on trauma recovery and anger management, locking myself in my room. I gave Olive a wide berth. I thought staying out of her way proved I cared. I thought keeping my baggage away from her counted as protection.
It was just another form of hiding.
Reading books in a quiet room requires zero courage. Avoiding my packmates demands zero effort. Watching Finn, Malcolm, and Lawrence step up to care for our mate while I sulk in the shadows makes me sick to my stomach.
A pack requires participation. It requires actually showing up for your family.
I shift the car into drive. I pull away from the curb, merging into the bustling city traffic.
I need to make actual amends in the real world. Sitting in the mansion and staring at Olive across the living room solves nothing. It just frustrates her. She deserves an Alpha who confronts his mistakes, not one who retreats at the first sign of discomfort.
I head straight toward the downtown medical district.
The towering glass structure of the city hospital comes into view over the skyline.
My pulse ticks a little faster. A knot twists in my gut.
The urge to turn the car around and head back to the safe isolation of my bedroom pulls at my mind.
The old Victor would turn around. He would go home and drink an expensive scotch to numb the anxiety.
I force my foot to stay on the gas pedal. I ignore the exit signs and keep heading toward the medical plaza.
I pull into the underground parking garage beneath the hospital. The tires squeak against the concrete. I navigate the tight turns until I find a spot near the elevator bank. I put the car in park.
I turn the engine off. I sit in the quiet car for a long minute, gathering my focus.
I run through the grounding exercises Dr. Aris taught me.
I list three things I can see. The steering wheel.
The concrete pillar. The green exit sign.
I list two things I can feel. The leather seat under my legs. The cool metal of the door handle.
I take a deep breath in through my nose. I hold it for a count of four. I exhale slowly through my mouth. The oxygen clears my head.
I push the car door open and step out into the dimly lit garage. I lock the vehicle and walk toward the elevator doors. I have a debt to pay, and I intend to pay it today. No audience or expectations. Just me putting in the work.
The elevator doors slide open on the fourth floor, revealing the linoleum tiles of the pediatric ward. The scent of bleach and rubbing alcohol immediately hits my nose, while the steady, rhythmic beeping of medical monitors echoes from the open doorways. Nurses walk past without a second glance.
Panic claws at my throat, tightening my chest. This sterile environment tries to pull me right back into the past.
I plant my boots firmly on the floor to stop the spiral.
Closing my eyes helps shift my focus entirely to the present moment. I’m twenty-six years old. I stand in a hospital to visit a fan. Loren is gone, but the kids in these rooms are still fighting. The past can't hurt me here.
A slow, measured breath pushes the panic down into a locked box in my mind.
The walls finally stop shrinking. The air feels breathable again. I push my shoulders back and start the walk down the hallway.
Bright yellow suns and cartoon animals painted on the walls blur past as the room numbers count up. Bypassing the nurses' station requires keeping my head down and avoiding eye contact.
Room 414 sits at the end of the hall.
The wooden door rests wide open, framing the scene inside.
Sam sits propped up against a pile of pillows, wearing the same gold and black Iron Wolves beanie on his bald head.
His thin hands grip a Nintendo Switch, thumbs flying across the buttons.
Clear IV tubes run from a loud pump on a metal pole straight into a port on his arm.
A woman I don't recognize sits in a plastic chair near the window, tapping away on her phone.
Looking at the tubes and the sick kid spikes an urge to run for a split second, but crushing the instinct takes almost no effort this time.
I knock my knuckles against the wooden doorframe.
Sam pauses his game. He looks up, his hazel eyes going wide as his jaw drops open in disbelief.
"Victor Sterling? You actually came back!" Sam grips the gaming console against his chest, a huge smile breaking across his face.
"Hey, Sam." I step into the room, leaving my ego out in the hallway. I keep my pitch low so it doesn't echo in the small space.
The woman near the window stands up and slips her phone into her pocket. Surprise flashes across her face as she steps forward, offering a warm but hesitant smile.
"Hi, I'm Elena." She extends a hand. "I'm Sam's mom. I wasn't here the other day, but Sam talks about you constantly."
"Nice to meet you, Elena." I shake her hand gently. "I'm Victor."
She offers a quiet, appreciative nod and sits back down by the window, letting us talk.
I walk over to the spare plastic chair in the corner and fold my tall frame into the cramped seat. Leaning forward, my elbows rest on my knees.
"Olive said you went to your car to get something." Sam stares at me.
A fresh wave of guilt twists in my gut. Olive lied to protect him. She covered for me even when she hated my guts, putting this kid's feelings above her own righteous anger.
"Olive is a very kind person." I look the kid right in the eye. "But she lied to protect your feelings. I didn't go to my car to get something. I got scared, and I ran away."
Sam tilts his head, confused. "You got scared? You fight giant defensemen on the ice. You aren't scared of anything."
"Everyone gets scared sometimes." A small, self-deprecating smile touches my lips.
"Hospitals remind me of a sad time in my life.
When I walked into your room a couple of weeks ago, it brought back some bad memories.
I panicked. But leaving you was wrong. You didn't do anything to cause it.
I acted like a coward, and I'm incredibly sorry I let you down. "
Sam studies my face, looking for the lie. He sees the truth.
A bright, gap-toothed smile stretches across his face. "It's okay. I forgive you. Finn gave me a signed jersey, so the day was still awesome."
The forgiveness lifts a weight off my chest. Breathing gets easier as the knot in my stomach untwists.
Sam holds out one of the red joycon controllers. "Do you play Mario Kart?"
Staring at the small plastic controller, the realization hits that playing a video game hasn't happened in a decade. Free time usually involves analyzing game footage, working out, or attending charity galas. Fun ranks zero on my list of priorities.
"I play to win. Prepare to get destroyed." I reach out and take the controller from his hand.
Sam lets out a bright, echoing laugh. "Yeah right. I beat Malcolm and Lawrence easily. You're going down."
I pull the plastic chair closer to the edge of his hospital bed. We sync the controllers and pick our characters. I choose Bowser. The familiar countdown music blares from the wall-mounted television.
The race starts.