Page 11 of Puck Your Charity

The elevator dings. I step in and hit the button for the fourth floor.

The ride up drags. My boot taps a restless beat against the metal floor. The hum in my chest intensifies the higher the car climbs.

The doors slide open. I step out into the pediatric ward. The yellow suns and painted cartoon animals mock my dark, agitated mood.

I walk the corridors from memory and stop outside room 414. Peeking through the open doorway, I spot Sam sitting up in his bed. He looks a bit more tired than yesterday, but he still clutches his Nintendo Switch in both hands.

I knock twice on the wooden frame.

Sam looks up. His hazel eyes widen. He drops his console onto the blankets.

I step inside and force a relaxed, easy grin onto my face. "Hey, man. I know the visit got a bit chaotic yesterday. I wanted to drop this off for you."

I hold up the folded jersey, keeping the silver signature visible.

Sam gasps. "No way. Is that a real game jersey?"

"Brand new." I walk over and lay the fabric across the foot of his bed. "Wear it for luck during the playoffs. There's a hat and a mascot plushie in the bag for you, too."

Sam runs his thin fingers over the embroidered logo. A gap-toothed smile stretches across his face. "Thank you. This is the coolest thing ever."

"You got it." I lean against the metal bed frame. Crossing my arms, I casually scan the room. The space feels empty. The lingering trace of that apple pie and cinnamon scent vanished, scrubbed away by the harsh hospital cleaners.

I turn my attention back to the kid. He trusts me. He considers me a hero. Using him as a wingman feels manipulative, but my Alpha refuses to leave the building without seeing her.

I tilt my head. "Is your mom around today?"

Sam shakes his head. "She had to pick up an extra shift at the store. She comes back tonight."

"Gotcha." I tap my fingers against my bicep. "What about the nice lady from yesterday? Olive. She rushed out in a hurry. I wanted to make sure she was feeling better."

Sam points a small finger toward the hallway. "She came in this morning. She told Brenda she still feels sick, but she doesn't think it's the flu. She went to the staff lounge down the hall to get some tea. It's right past the vending machines."

A surge of triumph hits my gut. I push off the bed frame.

I point a stern finger at the kid. "You get some rest. I expect you to cheer loud for us on Thursday night."

Sam salutes me. "I will!"

I walk out of room 414 and turn in the direction he pointed. The corridor stretches out in front of me, lined with closed doors and supply carts.

I pass a row of glowing vending machines. I take two more steps.

Then, the scent hits me like a freight train. It crashes through the sterile air, wiping out the smell of bleach, rubbing alcohol, and cheap hospital food. It smells like warm apple pie and crushed cinnamon, but the sweetness carries a raw, jagged edge.

It smells distressed, slick, like an unbonded Omega.

My boots stop moving. The linoleum floor seems to vanish beneath my feet.

A shockwave rips through my system. The hum in my chest erupts into a deafening, territorial roar. My vision tunnels until all I see are the sterile white walls leading toward that overwhelming scent. Every muscle in my body locks tight.

I suck the air through my teeth. The slick, burning sweetness coats the back of my throat. It tastes like an invitation and a desperate plea for an Alpha.

My rational brain shuts down. Olive is an Omega in the middle of a Heat, and she smells like she belongs to my pack.

Our Omega.

A low, feral growl vibrates in my throat. I push forward, my long legs closing the distance down the hallway. My entire focus narrows down to finding the source of that distress and ripping apart anything that stands in my way.