Page 61 of Puck Your Charity

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 youmatch 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.

Chapter 19

The late afternoon sun filters through the sheer curtains of the east wing sitting room, casting a warm golden glow over the plush carpet. I sit curled up in the corner of the oversized velvet sofa, a thick thriller paperback resting on my lap.

The mansion remains totally quiet. Malcolm and Lawrence went out to run errands. Finn lingers somewhere in the west wing, and Victor stays locked away in his self-imposed exile.

I stare at the open pages of my book, but the printed words blur together.

My mind refuses to focus on a fictional murder mystery when my real life feels like a chaotic puzzle. The lingering ache in my muscles reminds me of the intense, mind-melting encounterswith Lawrence and Malcolm over the last forty-eight hours. They took my control, shattered my defenses, and gave me a sense of peace I never expected to find in this house.