20. Finn
April means the Alpha Cup Playoffs start, and the whole vibe in the mansion shifted overnight.
We stopped treating hockey like a game, and now it feels like survival.
Everyone skates faster at practice while the hits leave worse bruises, making tempers run short.
As a goalie, my entire mindset usually narrows down to a tiny, focused window where I ignore the outside world and just track the puck.
But this year, my focus splits in two.
Tossing a few tailored road suits onto my mattress, I pack my duffel bag for the trip since we play the first two games out of town. The league mandates strict dress codes for travel days, forcing us to wear expensive suits on the plane. Grabbing my lucky ties, I shove them into a side pocket.
Hitting the road usually just means boring hotel rooms, terrible plane food, and a lot of card games with the guys. But this week, leaving the city felt completely wrong. Taking a road trip meant leaving Olive behind in the east wing.
A few days ago, we actually discussed hiring a team of private security guards to watch the house. Malcolm wanted to change the locks while Victor paced holes in the living room rug, stressing over her safety.
We all looked at each other and agreed right then and there. She comes with us.
She lost her job at the hospital, so nothing ties her to the city right now. We made a new rule for the pack. Where we go, she goes.
Getting her on the team jet meant dealing with a ton of annoying corporate rules.
The NHAL hates unauthorized guests traveling with the team during the playoffs.
Sneaking someone onto the plane gets you fined, and it can even get you suspended for a game.
We had to get her officially cleared with management.
The league requires hard proof of a real scent-match before they let an Omega hang around the locker rooms or the restricted zones. They sent a certified league nurse to our house a few days ago to get the paperwork started.
Sitting around the kitchen island, the nurse brought out the needles and drew vials of blood from me, Malcolm, Lawrence, and Victor first before asking Olive for her arm.
Malcolm stood behind her stool, resting a hand on her shoulder, and she leaned right into his touch while the nurse took the sample.
They ran a fast panel on our pheromones. Waiting for the results stressed me out. My instincts knew she belonged to us, but dealing with corporate red tape always puts me on edge. You never know when some suit in a front office will try to ruin your life over a technicality.
When the email from the lab hit our inboxes the next morning, the results confirmed a perfect match across the board. The league registered us in their database, making it official. Olive stopped being a guest in our house and now holds approved pack status with the NHAL.
I zip my toiletry bag shut and toss it into my duffel.
Downstairs, the foyer sounds chaotic. Lawrence stands near the front doors fixing the cuffs on his expensive gray suit while Malcolm hands our travel itineraries to the private driver.
Off to the side, Victor stares at the floor and keeps quiet, since the tension between him and Olive still casts a shadow over the house.
Dropping my bag next to Lawrence's luggage, footsteps padding down the hallway catch my attention.
Olive steps into the foyer wearing black leggings and one of my oversized Iron Wolves hoodies.
The gray cotton swallows her small frame with the sleeves hanging way past her hands.
Pulling the hood up, she buries her face in the fabric and breathes in my ozone scent, a relaxed, sleepy smile touching her lips.
A fierce, protective thrill hits my chest. She wears my clothes to feel safe.
"The car is ready." Malcolm looks at Olive. His dark eyes soften instantly, his whole posture relaxing when he sees her.
"I call a window seat." Olive laughs and runs to the car.
Victor flinches, but he keeps his mouth shut.
Loading into the black SUV, the drive to the private airfield takes twenty minutes. The car stays mostly quiet. Olive leans her head against my shoulder and dozes off while we navigate the city traffic, so I wrap my arm around her to enjoy the quiet weight of her leaning against me.
We pull up to the tarmac. The Iron Wolves jet sits waiting for us, gleaming under the afternoon sun. The team logo stretches across the tail.
Boarding the plane is always a mess of teammates, coaches, and equipment bags. The other guys on the roster notice Olive right away. A few of them look curious, but they catch my glare and keep moving. They know better than to crowd the starting line's new Omega.
The cabin smells like expensive cologne and stale coffee. We skip the main seating area and head straight to the private suite in the back of the jet.
I shove my bag into the overhead bin.
Olive climbs into a wide, plush leather captain's chair, kicking her sneakers off and curling her legs up underneath her. Pulling the gray hoodie tight around her knees, she looks tiny sitting in the middle of all this corporate luxury, but she also looks exactly where she belongs.
I take the seat directly across from her.
"Comfortable?" I watch her sink into the cushioning.
"My old car seats feel like concrete compared to this." She traces the stitching on the armrest. "I feel like royalty."
"Get used to it." Lawrence drops into the seat next to me. He flashes a bright grin. "You roll with the starting line now. We travel in style."
The engines roar to life, sending a vibration humming through the floorboards.
Watching her strap the seatbelt across her waist settles my nerves. Seeing her travel with us, wearing my clothes with official league clearance, fixes the anxious itch in my blood. We got our mate sorted out, and now we just have to win a few hockey games.
The team bus drops us off at a towering luxury hotel in the center of Clearwater.
Management booked the entire top floor for the starting line. Securing a sprawling, multi-room penthouse suite keeps us isolated from the media, crazed fans, and the rest of the roster, providing a secure, controlled environment.
Stepping out of the private elevator, we haul our bags down the wide, carpeted hallway.
I push the double doors of the penthouse open.
The space looks like an architectural magazine spread, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a staggering view of the city skyline.
An enormous living room features a wraparound leather sectional, a sleek wet bar, and a dining table big enough to seat ten people.
Four separate bedrooms branch off from the main area.
"I claim the master suite." Lawrence tosses his designer duffel onto the sofa. "The bathroom has a soaking tub."
"We share the master." Malcolm walks past him carrying Olive's bags. "The room holds a California King. It fits four people easily."
Stopping in the middle of the living room, Olive looks around the expansive space with her hands tucked into the pockets of her hoodie to process the sheer scale of the wealth on display.
Victor walks through the front door last, bypassing the group to head straight down the hallway. He turns into the farthest guest bedroom, and the door clicks shut behind him, sealing him inside his self-imposed isolation.
A tense, awkward silence falls over the living room.
Olive pulls her hands out of her pockets and stares at his closed door. "I need to unpack." She follows Malcolm toward the master suite. "Living out of a suitcase drives me crazy. I need to put things in drawers."
I follow them into the main bedroom.
The space features dark wood furniture and crisp white linens.
Wasting zero time, Olive unzips her duffel bag on the edge of the mattress and pulls out stacks of folded t-shirts, leggings, and socks.
She crosses the room to the large mahogany dresser and starts assigning drawers with rapid, focused efficiency.
Grabbing her toiletry bag, she heads into the huge marble bathroom to line her toothbrush, face wash, and moisturizer up in a perfectly straight row on the vanity counter.
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest to watch the pack dynamics play out.
Lawrence walks into the bedroom carrying a tray of iced waters and a plate of fresh fruit he ordered from room service. Setting the food on the nightstand, he offers Olive a charming, easy smile and cracks a joke about the ridiculous size of the bathtub, pulling a genuine laugh from her lips.
Stepping up behind her while she folds a sweater, Malcolm rests a large hand on the small of her back. The silent, grounding touch eases the tension in her shoulders, and she leans back into his palm for a fraction of a second to absorb his quiet strength.
They buzz around her, providing comfort and structure, but a glaring fracture ruins the picture.
Victor stays locked in that guest room. Despite the electric high of the playoff run, he radiates a bitter, suffocating misery.
The sour tang of his chilled juniper scent bleeds under his door and drifts into the living room, proving that keeping a wide berth just causes more damage instead of protecting her.
Playing goalie means my entire career relies on seeing the whole ice. I track the puck, predict the passes, and anticipate the weak spots in our defense before the other team exploits them, and I bring that same vision to my pack.
Olive looks happy when Lawrence makes her laugh and calm when Malcolm touches her, but her brown eyes constantly drift toward the hallway. Her gaze searches for the icy blond center who refuses to show his face. The rejection hurts her, adding a layer of stressed apple pie to her scent.
A fractured pack loses hockey games, and we play a brutal team tonight.