Page 50 of Puck Your Charity

The dark, territorial intent radiating from the ice hits my nervous system like a lightning strike. My inner Omega gives a deep, satisfied purr. A fresh wave of heat floods my veins, pooling wet and hot between my thighs. My skin flushes. The lingering hormones hijack my brain, demanding I drop to my knees and bare my neck for the men looking our way.

I grip the armrest of the chair. I refuse to look away from the ice.

The buzzer blares through the stadium speakers. The stadium lights go dark for a fraction of a second. A spotlight hits center ice.

Sloane leans forward in her seat. "Okay, the game starts with a face-off. The referee drops the puck, and the centers fight for it to gain control."

The opposing team lines up against the Iron Wolves. The referee holds the black puck between them. The stadium holds a collective breath. The noise dies down to a tense hum.

The puck drops.

Chaos erupts on the ice. The game begins with a violent, unapologetic speed. Sticks clash against sticks. Skates carve deep gouges into the frozen surface. The sound of crushing impact echoes up to the VIP box.

My healthcare-worker brain protests the display. Working in the pediatric ward taught me the brutal cost of concussions, broken ribs, and shattered collarbones. I spent years comforting kids with sports injuries. I know the dark side of high-impact collisions. Logic dictates I should hate the violence happening in front of me. I should cover my eyes and cringe at the raw aggression.

My new instincts override my logic.

A winger from the opposing team speeds down the right side of the rink. He breaks past the defense. He winds up and fires a blistering slapshot toward the net.

Finn doesn't flinch. He drops to his knees with impossible speed. His thick, padded chest blocks the puck. The rubber disc smacks against his sternum with a sickening crack. Finn traps the puck under his glove, freezing the play. He stands up, his towering frame acting as an immovable brick wall. The opposing players try to crowd the crease, hacking at his skates. Finn shoves the nearest forward backward with a brutal thrust of his blocker glove.

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.