18. Victor #2
We lean into the game. Drifting around the cartoon corners requires dodging banana peels and fake item boxes.
The track flashes with bright neon colors.
Sam proves ruthless on the sticks, hitting me with a red shell right before a jump.
My character plummets off the edge of the rainbow-colored road.
"Take that!" Sam pumps his fist, bouncing slightly against his pillows.
A genuine laugh escapes my throat. The sound surprises me, considering laughing without a hint of sarcasm hasn't happened in years.
Out of the corner of my eye, a slight movement catches my attention.
Elena holds her phone up, the camera lens pointed at the bed.
She snaps a quick photo of Sam and me playing the game, her thumbs flying across the screen a second later to send a message.
She smiles to herself, totally unaware that I noticed.
Letting her have the quiet moment, my focus stays locked on the TV screen.
We spend the next hour racing on every track.
We trash-talk each other. Bumping my shoulder against the metal railing of his bed happens every time he steals first place at the last possible second.
The beeping monitors and the smell of bleach fade into the background.
Focusing entirely on the kid makes the illness disappear.
He is funny. He is resilient. He deserves the best.
Losing the last tournament by two points stings a little. I toss the controller onto his blanket in exaggerated defeat, earning another laugh from him.
"You cheated." A grin tugs at my lips while I point a stern finger at him. "I demand a rematch after the playoffs."
"You're on." Sam's eyes crinkle at the corners with a bright smile.
Grabbing my keys out of my pocket, a glance at my watch tells me it's time to go.
"Need to get to practice." Offering Sam a wave, a grin pulls at my lips. "See you around, Sam."
"Bye, Victor. Good luck in the playoffs!" Sam waves his hand, already turning his attention back to the Nintendo Switch screen.
Stepping out of the room, footsteps follow close behind me on the linoleum. Elena slips into the hallway and pulls the wooden door partially shut, leaving it cracked so she can still hear the game.
"Mr. Sterling." She keeps her voice a quiet whisper. "Thank you for coming back. You have no idea what this means to him."
"Please, call me Victor. And he deserved an apology. Leaving like that was wrong."
She offers a sad, tired smile. "He doesn't hold grudges."
Looking at the crack in the door, the faint sounds of the racing game drift out. "What exactly is he fighting?"
"Leukemia." Elena wraps her arms around her ribs, holding herself tight.
"We've been battling it for two years. He needs a bone marrow transplant to survive, but nobody in our family is a match.
We sit on a global registry waiting for a donor, but the odds are tough.
So, we just try to make every single day a good one. Today was a great one."
The reality of their situation twists a knot in my gut.
"He's a tough kid." Giving her a respectful nod feels inadequate, but it's all there is to offer. "Keep your head up, Elena."
"Drive safe, Victor." She steps back into the room.
Walking toward the elevator at the end of the hall, the environment doesn't trigger a single spike of panic. The air feels breathable, leaving me grounded.
The doors slide open. Stepping inside the empty car, the ride down to the ground floor provides a moment to process Elena's words.
The expansive hospital lobby buzzes with activity.
Patients and visitors mill around the bright seating areas.
Heading toward the parking garage exit, a folding table set up near the main doors catches my eye.
A bright blue banner hangs over the edge of the table, reading Be The Match: Bone Marrow & Stem Cell Registry.
A stack of pamphlets and a box of sealed plastic kits sit on top of the table. A young nurse sits behind the display, typing on a laptop.
Elena's words echo in my head.
Altering my path, my boots carry me right over to the folding table.
The nurse looks up from her laptop. Blinking in surprise, she recognizes my face and sits up straighter in her folding chair. "Mr. Sterling. Hi. Can I help you with something?"
"How does the registry work?" Pointing to the box of plastic kits gets straight to the point.
"It's incredibly simple." She offers a polite, professional smile, grabbing one of the sealed packages.
"You just fill out a quick digital consent form on the tablet.
Then you take a cotton swab and rub the inside of your cheek for about thirty seconds.
We mail it off to the lab. They sequence your tissue type and add you to the global database. "
"And if I match someone?" Keeping my tone casual hides the sudden thumping in my chest.
"It's a long shot." She sets the kit on the table. "Most people stay on the registry for decades and never get called. But if you match a patient, a coordinator calls you. Stem cell donation is usually just a simple blood-draw process these days. It saves lives."
Reaching out, the digital tablet lands in my hand. Hesitation never crosses my mind. Focusing on the fact that Sam needs help, throwing my name in the hat feels like the only right option.
"I'll do it." Tapping the screen brings up the consent form.
Typing my name, contact information, and address into the fields takes less than a minute. Scrolling through the medical history questions requires rapid, precise answers. Signing the bottom of the screen with my index finger, the tablet goes back to the nurse.
She hands over the sealed plastic package.
Tearing the top off, the long cotton swab slips out. Sliding the tip into my mouth, the cotton rubs against the inside of my cheek. Counting to thirty in my head ensures the lab gets enough cells to use.
Pulling the swab out, it drops into the sterile plastic vial before the cap snaps shut. The vial goes back across the table.
"Thank you, Mr. Sterling." The nurse drops the vial into a secure shipping bag. "We appreciate it. You never know whose life you might change."
"Just doing my part." Giving her a polite nod concludes the interaction.
Turning away from the table, expecting nothing to come of it keeps my expectations in check. The odds of matching a random patient sit at less than one percent. It's just a quiet action. A tiny drop in the bucket of doing the right thing.
Pushing through the glass doors, the stairs lead down to the underground parking garage.
Stepping out into the dim concrete structure, my boots hit the pavement with a steady rhythm. Reaching my sports car, the key fob unlocks the doors.
Stopping with my hand on the handle, a deep breath of the city air circulating through the garage vents fills my lungs.
The constant, buzzing anger I carry around is gone. The rage that dictated my schedule, ruined my relationships, and isolated me from the world sits quiet in my chest. Confronting my fear and making amends put a stop to it.
Feeling solid and present replaces the old, toxic panic.
Sliding into the driver's seat, the engine roars to life.
Feeling like an Alpha worthy of a mate finally seems possible. Weeks spent punishing myself came from thinking my broken edges made me a threat to Olive. Staying away seemed like the only way to keep her safe. But perfection isn't a requirement. Doing the work is.
Shifting the car into drive, the tires roll out of the hospital garage.
A huge gap still exists between Olive and me. Earning her forgiveness requires patience. Walking into the east wing of the mansion and demanding a kiss won't work. Proving to her that the arrogant prick from the hallway is gone will take time.
Merging onto the interstate, the route toward the downtown arena feels different today.
We have a mid-afternoon practice to prep for the first playoff game in a few days.
Running away to hide in my bedroom is no longer the plan.
Showing up for my pack on the ice comes first. After that, I can finally figure out my place beside our Omega.