22. Malcolm
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.
Olive works the oil into my skin. Her thumbs push deep into the tight muscles of my upper back.
She uses her body weight to press deeper, kneading the tension out of my shoulders.
The repetitive motion works the stubborn knots out of my spine.
I let my head drop forward. A drop of cold water falls from the end of my wet braid and hits the center of my back.
"Your hair is still soaking wet from the ice bath." She traces the thick braid resting against my spine. "Can I take it out?"
I open my eyes. I keep my hair braided all the time. I hate people touching it. It gets in the way on the ice and gives opponents something to grab. But the quiet hope in her voice shifts my rigid boundaries. I want to make her happy.
"Go ahead." I give her the permission.
She shifts on her knees behind me. Her small fingers pull the elastic tie off the end.
She starts at the bottom, working the woven strands apart.
Her knuckles scrape against my scalp. The sensation sends a shiver down my neck.
She combs her fingers through the dark, wet waves.
The long strands fall past my shoulders and drape down my back.
"You look incredible like this." Her breath ghosts over my skin. "It makes you look relaxed."
Her apple pie scent spikes. The sweet aroma floods the dim bedroom. The scent drips with sudden, undeniable arousal. My long hair turns her on.
Her touch changes. The massage morphs into something else.
She shifts on the mattress, crawling around to my front.
She kneels right between my spread legs.
She slides her oil-slick hands over my collarbones, tracing the hard lines of my chest. She presses her soft front against my torso.
Her nipples peak hard against the thin cotton of her t-shirt, dragging against my skin.
She trails open-mouth kisses up the side of my neck.
A hot jolt shoots straight to my cock.
I reach up and catch her wrists. I hold her hands in place against my chest.
"You distract me." I keep my voice a low rumble.
"Good." She leans her chin on my shoulder. "You deserve a distraction."
I wrap my arms around her waist, looking down at her in the middle of her nest. Her dark bob frames her flushed face. Her brown eyes look blown out and hungry. She wants me. The realization fuels my dominance. I lack the need to force anything. I just need to guide her.
I reach out and grab the hem of the t-shirt she wears. I pull the fabric up and over her head, tossing it out of the nest. She sits naked on the blankets. The dim light catches the sheen of slick coating her inner thighs.
"Lie back." I issue the soft directive.
She obeys without hesitation. She lies back against the mountain of pillows. She spreads her legs, opening herself up to my gaze. Her chest heaves with ragged breaths.
I move over her. My towering frame cages her small body.
I brace my hands on either side of her head.
I lean down and capture her lips in a slow, deep kiss.
My tongue sweeps into her mouth, tasting the sweet and spice of her scent.
I kiss her with deliberate, unhurried focus.
I want her to feel cherished. I want her to feel the immense weight of my appreciation for everything she does for this pack.
I break the kiss and trail my mouth down her neck. I suck a dark bruise onto her collarbone, marking her skin.
"Malcolm." She arches her back, her hands twisting into my loose hair.
I move lower. I cup her breasts. I roll her tight nipples between my thumbs.
The friction makes her whine. I suck one nipple into my mouth, biting the sensitive peak with gentle pressure.
I swirl my tongue over the swollen bud. She thrashes on the sheets.
Her slick floods the blankets beneath her.
I take my time with her chest, moving back and forth between her breasts until she begs for more.
I trail kisses down her flat stomach. I settle my face between her thighs.
I press my mouth against her soaking wet pussy. The taste of her sweet slick floods my tongue. I lap at her folds, drinking her heat. I swirl my tongue over her swollen clit.
"Please." She grips the pillows. Her hips buck upward against my mouth.
I hold her hips down with my large hands.
I keep her pinned to the mattress. I suck her clit hard, drawing a screaming moan from her throat.
I feed her pleasure. I slide two fingers into her wet core.
I pump my fingers in a relentless rhythm while my mouth devours her clit.
Her thighs tremble. Her inner walls spasm around my fingers.
I pull back, letting the cool air hit her wet center.