2. Victor
The sensory assault hits me like a brick wall.
The stench of antiseptic wipes and sterile rubbing alcohol coats the inside of my mouth. A machine next to the bed beeps in a steady, relentless rhythm. Clear plastic tubes run from a pump down to the fragile arm of the kid on the mattress, while a bag of yellow fluid hangs off a metal pole.
The air in the room feels wrong. It feels thick and tastes like death.
The walls around me dissolve, taking the yellow suns and painted cartoon animals with them. The ten-year-old boy in the gold and black jersey fades away, replaced by a much smaller room with pale pink walls. A tiny girl drowns in oversized hospital blankets.
Loren.
The smell of bleach suffocates me. My memory drags me back to a plastic chair just like the one in the corner.
My fingers go numb recalling the feel of a small, cold hand while the doctors rushed in.
The exact second that the beeping turned into a solid, endless tone plays on a torturous loop in my head.
The flashback crushes my chest, making it impossible to pull oxygen into my lungs. My vision tunnels until all that remains are those clear plastic tubes.
A frantic beat hammers against my ribs, and cold sweat breaks out across my forehead. My stomach pitches with the sudden, violent need to vomit.
Spinning on my heel, my shoulder clips the wooden doorframe. The jolt of pain barely registers as I break into a dead sprint.
The brightly lit corridor blurs past as I shove through a rolling cart of supplies. A nurse shouts something, but the rushing noise inside my ears drowns her out. Escape is the only thought I have left. I have to get outside into the fresh air before this tomb suffocates me completely.
Hitting the double doors at the end of the ward, I burst into the stairwell and take the concrete steps three at a time. Echoes bounce off the walls like gunshots from my shoes.
Reaching the ground floor, my shoulder smashes into the exit bar, sending the metal door flying open.
Bright afternoon sun blinds me the second I stumble out into the back parking lot. Even with the concrete radiating warmth, my entire body feels plunged into a frozen lake.
Ripping the zipper of my gold and black tracksuit jacket down, the fabric tears off my shoulders and hits the asphalt. My fingers claw at the collar of my t-shirt. Bending over with my hands resting on my knees, I gasp for air.
It smells like exhaust fumes and hot tar.
My hands shake violently, so I squeeze my eyes shut and force a count on my breaths. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
The panic attack recedes, leaving behind a hollow, aching void in my chest. Standing up straight, the back of my hand wipes the cold sweat away from my forehead.
My pulse still pounds. Frustration settles in my gut. I hate losing control.
The hallway argument echoes in my memory. Complaining about the smell and the charity visit felt easier than admitting my terror. Anger works as the perfect shield to keep people away and stop their questions.
Did that woman hear any of it?
Her image flashes in my mind. Standing in the hallway with her arms crossed over those navy scrubs, her dark hair fell in a sleek, blunt bob around her face. A fierce, protective energy commanded the space around her.
She looked beautiful.
I definitely looked like a total maniac sprinting out of her patient's room. I wrecked the entire mood before anyone even settled in.
My jaw tightens. I refuse to stand in a parking lot and dissect my mental breakdown. I need a distraction. I need a drink. Reaching into the pocket of my trackpants, my fingers pull out my phone. I open the group chat with Malcolm, Lawrence, and Finn.
VICTOR:
I had to get out of there. Meet me at Phera when you finish with the kid. Let's get drinks. I'll be in the VIP section.
I hit send and pick up my jacket before I order a car to pick me up and take me to the club.
The bass thumps through the soles of my sneakers.
The upscale nightclub, Phera, pulses with neon lights and a crush of sweaty bodies on the dance floor.
Sitting in a curved, dark leather booth in the secluded VIP section on the second floor, a velvet rope and two large bouncers separate me from the chaos below.
Staring at the amber liquid in my glass, the ice cubes clink against the crystal as I swirl the expensive whiskey. A long swallow burns a welcome path down my throat.
It does nothing to numb the self-hatred festering in my gut.
Hours passed since I fled the hospital. Stewing in my toxic thoughts the entire time, the scene in the hallway played on an endless loop. Olive’s brown eyes burned into my memory. The heat of her judgment felt as real as the exact shade of gray on the kid's face.
The velvet curtain shifts. Three familiar giants duck their heads and step into the dim booth.
Malcolm, Finn, and Lawrence slide onto the leather bench across from me. They fill the space with their sheer size and their combined scent. The crisp citrus notes of our pack blend mingle with the smell of the bar.
Nobody says a word for a long minute. They don't coddle me. They don't pat my shoulder and tell me everything is okay. But they also don't yell. They refuse to berate me for acting like a coward and abandoning a ten-year-old boy on his Make-A-Wish day.
They know me. They know my anger covers up the cracks in my foundation.
Lawrence signals the waitress and orders a round of beers for the three of them. He leans back against the leather cushion.
Lawrence fixes a steady look on me. "You bolted pretty fast, man. Left us to handle the photos alone."
My grip on the glass tightens. "I know."
Malcolm crosses his arms over his chest. His dark eyes study my face. "You turned the color of concrete. I thought you planned to puke on the kid's shoes."
A flinch escapes me.
Taking another drink of whiskey, the words finally spill out. "I couldn't breathe. The second I stepped over the threshold, the smell hit me. The bleach. The rubbing alcohol. The sound of the machines."
Finn rests his forearms on the table. His auburn hair looks messy from running his hands through it. "You hate hospitals. We know that. But you usually manage to grit your teeth and suffer through the visits."
"This one felt different." I stare at the melting ice in my glass. "The kid... he looked just like her. He had the same pale skin. The same bags under his eyes. It dragged me right back to that chair next to her bed. I heard the monitor flatline."
A thick silence falls over the table. None of them push for more details. They know about Loren. They know a childhood tragedy broke me before I ever laced up a pair of skates.
Lawrence sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "I get it, Victor. I really do. But you acted like a massive prick in the hallway beforehand."
"I know." My teeth grind together.
Malcolm raises an eyebrow. "You complained about visiting a dying kid because it cut into your relaxation time."
"I used it as an excuse." I drag a hand down my face. "I tried to talk my way out of going in there. I wanted management to cancel the visit. I panicked."
Finn accepts a bottle of beer from the waitress. "That nurse with Make-A-Wish heard every word."
"Olive." I speak her name into the loud club. It feels strange on my tongue.
Leaning my head back against the booth, I stare at the dark ceiling. "She looked at me like I belonged in the gutter. Her smile stopped short of her eyes. She wanted to punch me in the throat."
Malcolm chuckles, a low, rumbling sound. "She definitely wanted to murder you. She has a fierce protective streak. I respect that."
Dropping my gaze back to my glass, the guilt gnaws at me. "I can't get her out of my head. I try to block out the memory of the hospital, but all I see is her face. Her judgment stings. It burns right through me."
Finn peels the label off his beer bottle. "She stepped up when you bolted. She told the kid you forgot something in the car to save face. She covered for you."
The information makes my chest ache even more. She despised me, but she still protected the kid from feeling abandoned. She sacrificed her own righteous anger to keep Sam happy.
Downing the rest of my whiskey, the glass hits the table with a loud thud.
I look at my packmates. "I’m a broken mess."
Lawrence clinks his bottle against my empty glass. "We know. But you score a lot of goals, so we keep you around."
The tension in my shoulders drops a fraction. They accept my flaws. They offer no judgment. But the grace they give me does nothing to erase the look of total disgust in Olive's brown eyes.
The waitress clears my empty glass and sets a fresh whiskey on the table. The music shifts to a faster, louder beat. The crowd on the dance floor below surges.
I take a sip of my new drink. I prepare to steer the conversation toward tomorrow's practice schedule. I need a distraction. I need to focus on hockey and ignore the mess inside my head.
Before I speak, the velvet curtain parts.
Four Omega women slip past the bouncer. They wear tight dresses, towering heels, and flawless, intricate makeup. They carry the predatory, eager energy of fans who spotted a VIP table and decided to shoot their shot.
They swarm the leather booth. A cloud of overwhelming, synthetic perfume suffocates the crisp citrus scent of my pack. It smells like cheap vanilla and suffocating floral notes. My nose wrinkles in distaste.
A blonde woman in a red dress leans right over the table toward me. She flashes a practiced, dazzling smile.
"Victor Sterling." She purrs my name over the loud music. "We watched your last game. You looked incredible on the ice."
I stare at her.
Before I tell her to leave, Lawrence slides over and blocks her line of sight. He flashes a warm, easy smile that disarms the group.
Lawrence leans on the table. "Thanks for the support, ladies. We appreciate the fans. But we plan to keep it a private guys' night tonight. Big practice tomorrow."
A brunette with dark red lipstick pouts. She looks past Lawrence to Malcolm. "You guys can't spare five minutes for a drink?"
Malcolm sits like a stone wall. He crosses his arms and fixes her with a blank, intimidating stare. The brunette shifts nervously on her heels.
Finn gives them a polite, dimpled smile. He keeps his posture relaxed but closed off. "Sorry. Have a great time on the dance floor."
They giggle, offer a few more lingering looks, and finally retreat through the velvet curtain.
The thick synthetic perfume lingers in the air. My stomach churns. I feel nauseated by the superficial attention.
I look at the empty space where the blonde stood. I compare her practiced smile and eager eyes to Olive.
Olive wore baggy navy scrubs and no makeup.
Her dark bob lacked any fancy styling. She offered me no adoration.
She gave zero fucks about my fame, my money, or my stats on the ice.
She cared about protecting a sick kid. Her glare contained more raw, genuine emotion than the fake smiles of a hundred fans.
I swirl my whiskey. Fame means absolutely nothing. The money, the VIP booths, and the fawning crowds all feel hollow. I’m a wealthy, successful athlete, but I ran away from a ten-year-old boy because my mind remains trapped in the past.
The guys fall into a comfortable conversation about the upcoming playoff brackets. I sit back and let their deep voices wash over me.
My mind drifts back to the hospital room. I replay the exact moment I stepped over the threshold.
Right before the smell of bleach hit me, I caught something else.
It lasted for a split second. A faint sweet scent drifted through the sterile air. It smelled like warm apple pie and cinnamon. It bypassed my rational thoughts and sent a sudden, jarring hum straight into my Alpha instincts.
I frown and rub my jaw.
It makes zero sense. The hospital mandates only Alphas and Betas work in them unless they’re on the Omega-Only floor, so what I smelled had to be a trick of my nose. Olive is a Beta. I don’t know why I keep thinking about her, but it needs to stop now.
My inner Alpha refuses to settle. It ignores logic and facts. It latches onto the memory of the apple pie, fierce brown eyes, and a devastating glare.