21. Olive
The away arena vibrates with a deafening, hostile roar.
I sit in the private family box high above the ice, surrounded by the Omega wives and girlfriends of the Clearwater Rooks.
The atmosphere up here mirrors the hostility down on the rink.
The local fans scream insults, bang their fists against the plexiglass, and spill cheap beer on the concrete steps. The noise constantly rings in my ears.
A blonde Omega sitting in the leather seat next to me leans over. She wears a tight red dress and balances a plastic cup of white wine in her manicured hand. Her scent smells like cloying caramel.
"You look a little tense in that big sweater." She looks me up and down. Her voice drips with fake sympathy.
"Is this your first away game? Our boys tend to play a little rough." She smirks, taking a sip of her wine.
"I can handle rough." I keep my hands tucked into the front pocket of my oversized gray Iron Wolves hoodie.
"I just prefer watching actual hockey instead of cheap hits." I turn my attention back to the ice, refusing to let her bait me.
She sniffs, looking highly offended, and turns back to her friends to whisper something under her breath.
Down on the ice, the Iron Wolves battle through a brutal, punishing game. The Rooks play dirty. They throw elbows, slam our guys into the boards, and start fights after every whistle.
The high-stakes hockey match serves as intense background noise for my racing thoughts. My stomach twists into a tight, anxious knot. My leg bounces against the carpeted floor.
I spent the entire day preparing for what comes after the final buzzer.
This morning over room service, I pulled Finn, Malcolm, and Lawrence aside and laid it all out. I told them I needed to talk to Victor tonight, just the two of us. I needed them to clear out of the penthouse the second we got back from the game so we could finally figure this out.
They didn't even argue. They just promised to make themselves scarce.
Now, the anticipation eats me alive.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the edge of the private box partition. My eyes lock onto the blond center skating across the ice.
Victor looks ruthless tonight. He hasn't lost a single ounce of his vicious edge on the rink. If anything, the playoffs make him meaner.
A Rooks defenseman cross-checks him hard against the glass right in front of our bench. The impact echoes through the stadium.
I gasp, my fingers gripping the padded armrest.
"Looks like Sterling finally got what was coming to him." The blonde Omega leans forward, laughing a high-pitched, annoying sound.
"He always skates like an arrogant prick. Glad to see him eat the ice." She taps her plastic cup against her friend's cup in a mock toast.
A fierce, protective thrill flares in my chest. A heavy dose of protective adrenaline hums under my skin.
"He's setting up a play." I hold her gaze, making sure my voice stays dead level.
"And your guy just took the bait." I lean back in my leather seat.
Victor hits the ice. He slides on his side, his stick clattering away. The Rooks player stands over him, shouting an obvious taunt.
The old Victor would drop his gloves and throw a blind tantrum, eating penalty minutes just to prove a point.
The new Victor pushes himself up off the ice.
He ignores the taunt but memorizes the guy's jersey number.
He grabs his stick and spends the next five minutes hunting the defenseman down during the play.
He bides his time until the Rooks player looks down at the puck, and then Victor delivers a bone-crushing legal hit that leaves the guy gasping for air against the boards.
Victor steals the puck right off his stick and skates back into the play with calculated discipline, setting up a flawless pass to Malcolm a few seconds later. Malcolm buries the puck in the back of the net.
The red goal light flashes. The home crowd groans in collective outrage.
"Like I said." I turn my head and flash the blonde Omega a sweet, customer-service smile.
"He took the bait." I cross my arms over my chest, letting the satisfaction settle in.
She glares at me, her cheeks flushing bright red, and turns her back to watch the replay on the jumbotron.
Seeing Victor channel that vicious aggression into a smart, ruthless play instead of a reckless penalty solidifies my resolve.
He still has all his fire, but he controls the burn now.
He applies the coping mechanisms he learned in therapy to his life off the ice, while keeping his deadly edge on it.
The game clock counts down the last minutes of the third period. The Iron Wolves hold a narrow one-goal lead.
I spend the remaining time mentally rehearsing exactly what I want to say to him.
Walking into his room requires stripping away the defensive armor I wore since the day we met.
I have to drop my pride and admit I judged him based on a huge misunderstanding.
I have to lay my feelings out in the open and trust him to catch them.
The final buzzer blares through the stadium speakers.
The Iron Wolves stream off the bench, crowding around Finn at the net to celebrate. They secured the first win of the series. The home crowd boos, tossing empty popcorn buckets toward the ice.
I stand up from my leather seat, ignoring the dirty looks from the local Omegas in the box.
A security guard meets me at the door to escort me down to the tunnel. We navigate the crowded concourse, slipping past the angry local fans. The smell of stale beer and fried food hangs thick in the air.
We reach the secure loading dock where the team bus idles with the engine running.
I climb aboard and take an empty seat near the front. The adrenaline hums through my veins. The mental script replays in my head over and over again. Victor, I saw the photo. I know what you did for Sam. I want you.
The guys file onto the bus a half-hour later. They look exhausted, bruised, and victorious. Fresh cuts mark Lawrence's cheek. Malcolm holds an ice pack to his shoulder.
Finn stops in the aisle next to my seat. He flashes a dimpled, sweaty grin, resting his large hand on the top of my headrest.
"You look like you're plotting a murder." He drops his voice low, his brown eyes tracking my bouncing leg.
"Or a bank heist." He tilts his head, studying my nervous anticipation.
"Just going over the game plan." I offer a tight, nervous smile.
"You guys played great tonight." I look up at him, feeling a surge of gratitude for the distraction.
"We had good motivation." He squeezes the headrest gently.
"We have your back tonight, Liv. Whatever happens." He gives me a knowing, supportive look.
"Thank you." A quiet whisper escapes my lips as my tense shoulders drop a fraction.
Finn nods and continues down the aisle to the back of the bus.
Victor steps onto the bus last. He wears a crisp black suit, his blond hair still damp from the locker room showers.
He spots me sitting in the front row. Our eyes lock for a split second. A flash of nervous longing crosses his handsome face before he forces his gaze down to the rubber floor mat. He walks past me, heading for the very back of the bus.
He smells like juniper and exhaustion. The scent wraps around me, making my inner walls clench with sudden, fierce need.
The bus lurches forward, pulling out of the arena parking lot.
The drive back to the hotel takes twenty agonizing minutes.
My hands shake inside the pocket of my hoodie.
The terrifying reality of confronting him finally sets in.
We spent the last two and a half weeks trading insults and avoiding each other.
Flipping that dynamic upside down tonight takes an enormous leap of faith.
The bus parks outside the luxury hotel.
I stand up and follow the team inside, resolute about what comes next. The time for hiding is over.
The private elevator doors slide open, spilling the starting line into the wide, carpeted hallway of the top floor.
We walk toward the penthouse suite in total silence. The adrenaline from the game crash-landed during the bus ride, leaving the guys bruised, exhausted, and running on fumes.
Malcolm unlocks the double doors and pushes them open.
We step into the sprawling, dim living room. The city skyline glows outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The quiet atmosphere feels like the deep breath right before a storm.
Finn drops his bag by the sofa. He catches my eye, offering a slow, encouraging nod. He grabs Lawrence by the back of his suit jacket and hauls him toward the kitchen area. Malcolm grabs his own duffel and heads straight for the master bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him.
They stick to the plan.
Victor steps inside the suite last. He unbuttons his suit jacket, his shoulders slumping with fatigue. He ignores the kitchen and the master bedroom, turning his boots toward the guest room at the end of the hall.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the lingering scent of his juniper.
I cross the living room, following right behind him. My sneakers make zero noise against the plush carpet.
Victor pushes the guest room door open and steps inside. He reaches up to loosen his silk tie, staring at the floor.
"We need to talk." I step into the doorframe.
Victor drops his hands from his tie. He turns around to face me. His icy blue eyes lock onto mine. He stands his ground, bracing himself for whatever I came to say.
"Finn said you asked for me." His voice sounds wrecked, raspy from shouting on the ice. "I just needed a minute to get my head straight before I knocked on the master suite door."
"I decided to come to you." I step into the room, pulling the door shut behind me.
The click of the latch echoes in the quiet space. We stand ten feet apart. The distance feels like miles.
I pull my phone out of my hoodie pocket. I unlock the screen, opening the text thread with Elena. The candid photo of Victor sitting in the hospital chair loads.
I turn the phone around, showing him the screen.