15. Olive #2
My heart hammers against my ribs. Seeing Finn protect his zone sparks a fierce, possessive thrill in my chest.
"Finn plays goalie," Sloane points down at the net. "His only job involves keeping that rubber puck out of the net. He acts as the last line of defense."
"God, the goalies take a beating." Sloane leans back on the leather couch, watching Finn reset in the crease. She rubs a hand over her round belly. "Rhett and Bennett used to have heart attacks every time Bennett took a slapshot to the ribs."
Rhett chuckles from across the room, tossing a grape into his mouth. "I still lose years off my life watching them."
Play resumes. The puck slides toward the corner boards. An opposing defenseman scrambles to retrieve the loose rubber.
Malcolm closes the distance like a freight train.
He lowers his shoulder. He slams into the defenseman with a bone-crushing, stoic check.
The impact rattles the plexiglass panels.
The opposing player crumbles to the ice, his stick flying out of his hands.
Malcolm steals the puck and skates away, his expression blank and merciless under his visor.
He leaves a trail of bruised bodies in his wake.
"Malcolm plays defense," Sloane nudges my arm. "He protects our side of the rink and clears people out of the way. He hits like a truck."
I gasp, my fingers curling into tight fists. The absolute dominance of Malcolm's hit sends a jolt of liquid heat straight down to my core. The friction of my jeans against my swollen center feels agonizing.
Lawrence calls for the puck. Malcolm fires a crisp pass across the blue line.
Lawrence catches the pass without breaking his stride.
He uses his lethal, blinding speed to weave through the center zone.
Two defenders try to box him in. Lawrence drops his shoulder, dekes to the left, and spins around the trap.
He moves with fluid grace, making the professional athletes around him look like clumsy amateurs.
He leaves the defense eating his ice shavings.
My inner Omega purrs at the display of his supreme agility. Finding a mate with superior speed guarantees survival in the wild. The ancient instinct translates to raw, undeniable lust.
Victor skates into the offensive zone. Lawrence passes the puck backward.
"Lawrence and Victor play offense," Sloane explains, watching the play develop. "They focus on getting the puck to the other end and scoring goals. Victor plays center, so he controls the pace of the whole line."
Victor catches the rubber on the tape of his stick.
He plays with cold, calculating aggression.
He surveys the ice, mapping out the trajectories of every player in a fraction of a second.
An opposing forward rushes him, trying to force a turnover.
Victor ignores the threat until the last possible second.
He sidesteps the hit, letting the forward crash into the boards.
Victor takes two strides toward the net and fires a flawless, perfect wrist shot over the goalie's shoulder.
"That's my nephew." Rhett smiles with proud amusement, shaking his head. "Kid has ice water in his veins."
Bennett wraps an arm around Sloane's shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple. "He plays hard. Gets it from his uncle."
The red goal light flashes. The stadium siren blares. The crowd explodes into a deafening roar.
I sink onto the plush leather couch in the VIP box. My knees refuse to support my weight.
Every time one of them slams an opponent into the glass, my breathing turns shallow. Every time they fiercely defend their zone, a fresh wave of slick floods my underwear. The lingering hormone cocktail turns my brain into mush.
I squirm in my seat, crossing my legs to create friction against my aching clit.
I feel like an absolute mess. I bite my lower lip to stifle a distressed whine.
Watching my Alphas act like ruthless, territorial predators triggers every dormant submission instinct in my system.
They own the ice. They dominate the competition. And I belong to them.
The game continues for three grueling periods.
I watch them bleed, sweat, and fight for every inch of the rink.
They take hits and deliver worse punishment in return.
The violence becomes a mesmerizing, intoxicating dance.
I stop caring about the risk of injury. I stop thinking about my sensible, curated life.
I just want the game to end so I can drag the four of them into a dark, quiet room and let them tear my clothes off.
The final buzzer blares over the speakers. The red numbers on the jumbotron show a victory for the Iron Wolves. The crowd screams, tossing hats onto the ice.
Sloane claps her hands, a huge grin on her face. "Three to two! Victor scored all three goals for a hat trick. A clean win in regulation time means they skip overtime and secure their playoff spot."
The lead security guard steps up to the leather couch. "Ms. Blanchard. Time to go. We need to beat the crowd to the tunnels."
I nod, my legs trembling as I stand up. My jeans stick to my thighs. My skin burns with a hot flush.
Sloane stands up and gives me an encouraging hug, her warm scent wrapping around me like a blanket. "Go get 'em, honey. You survived your first hockey game."
Rhett and Bennett offer warm nods as the security guard escorts me out of the VIP box.
We take the private elevator down to the basement level of the arena. The concrete tunnels smell like cold ice, stale beer, and exhaust fumes from the Zamboni machines. Staff members rush past us, carrying equipment bags and water coolers.
One guard goes into the locker room pushing up a set of double doors. A painted Iron Wolves logo decorates the metal.
"Wait here." The other guard crosses his arms and stands next to me.
The adrenaline from the game still buzzes in my ears. The muffled sounds of cheering and shouting echo through the thick steel doors. The team celebrates the win inside the locker room.
The doors swing open.
A thick, intoxicating scent cloud rolls into the hallway. The aroma of aggressive, triumphant Alpha pheromones hits my lungs. Crisp citrus, crackling ozone, rich cedar, spicy black pepper, and juniper blend into a dark, musky perfume.
Finn, Lawrence, and Malcolm step out of the locker room. They wear gray team-issued tracksuits. Their hair looks wet from the showers. Dark bruises purple on their jawlines and split lips prove the brutality of the game. They ride the intense high of the victory.
Finn spots me standing against the concrete wall. His dark eyes flash.
He crosses the hallway in three long strides. He wraps his huge arms around my waist, hauling me off my feet. He buries his face in the crook of my neck. He inhales my sweet apple pie scent with a rough, vibrating groan.
"You smell incredible." His breath ghosts against my skin, his chest heaving. "You smell perfect for us."
Malcolm steps up right behind him. He rests his broad hand on the back of my head, anchoring me in place. His dark eyes sweep over my flushed cheeks and my trembling frame.
Lawrence crowds my other side. He leans in and presses a hot kiss to my jaw. He tastes like sweat and mint. "Did you like the show, Olive? Did you like watching your pack win?"
"I liked it." I breathe the confession into Finn's shoulder.
They purr. The deep, rumbling sound vibrates in their chests, surrounding me in a cocoon of territorial satisfaction.
Amidst the high-energy celebration, my eyes flick toward the locker room doors.
Victor steps out into the hallway. He wears a black athletic shirt and dark sweatpants. A fresh, bloody cut slices across his cheekbone. He carries a huge canvas hockey bag slung over his shoulder.
He stays on the periphery of the group. He doesn't join the embrace.
I watch his icy blue eyes. They look dark and blown out with raw hunger. His chest rises and falls in jagged breaths. The juniper of his scent spikes with a desperate craving. He wants to step forward. He wants to bury his nose in my neck and inhale my scent just like Finn and Lawrence.
He forces his boots to stay planted on the concrete. He fights his own instincts, battling his urges to give me space. He keeps the boundary intact.
Victor shifts his weight. The canvas hockey bag slips off his shoulder and hits the floor. The zipper slides open a few inches.
I glance down at the gap in the canvas. A stack of paperback books spills out against the concrete.
My breath catches in my throat. The bold lettering on the cover stands out under the harsh fluorescent lights. Managing Rage: A Guide for Alphas, Unpacking Childhood Trauma, and The Psychology of Forgiveness.
Victor freezes. He stares down at the books. A dark, mortified flush creeps up his neck. He drops to one knee and shoves the paperbacks deep into the canvas bag. He yanks the zipper shut with a violent tug. He slings the strap over his shoulder and turns his face away, refusing to meet my eyes.
The cold, cruel, untouchable Alpha spends his free time reading self-help books about childhood trauma and anger management.
The revelation catches me off guard. It puts a devastating crack in the foundation of my hatred. I spent weeks viewing Victor as a toxic, arrogant tyrant who cared only about control. Seeing the concrete proof of his silent struggle rewrites the narrative.
Finn sets me down on the floor. "Ready to go home?"
"Yeah." I nod, keeping my eyes on Victor's back as he walks toward the exit. "Let's go home."
My anger wavers. A dark, twisted curiosity takes root in my chest. I want to know what hides behind Victor's icy mask. I want to know what broke him.