Page 92 of Puck Your Charity

I struggle to breathe at the bottom of the dogpile, but I feel euphoric. The weight of my packmates pressing me into the frozen ice feels like absolute victory. We fought through hell to get here. We survived my toxic temper and the grueling playoff schedule. We stand at the top of the league.

The guys climb off me. I stand up, my chest heaving.

I toss my gloves and my stick onto the ice. I rip my helmet off and throw it into the air. The cool rink air hits my sweaty hair.

I skate toward the side boards. I look up at the VIP glass suites circling the arena. I find our private box.

Olive stands right against the glass. She wears my black and gold jersey. I can't make out the details of her face from this far down on the ice, but her overwhelming joy is obvious. She jumps up and down, banging her hands against the thick plexiglass to cheer for us.

I focus on her silhouette. The noise of twenty thousand screaming fans fades into the background. I ignore the reporters rushing the ice and the teammates celebrating around me. My entire universe narrows down to the fierce woman in the VIP box. I point a finger right at her. I tap my chest over my heart.

She understands the gesture. She presses her hands flat against the glass in return.

The league officials roll a red carpet onto the ice. They wheel out a large table holding the towering silver Alpha Cup. The commissioner grabs a microphone and calls our captain forward.

We gather around the trophy. I stand shoulder to shoulder with Finn, Lawrence, and Malcolm. We grab the silver handles and hoist the giant trophy over our heads. We skate a victory lap around the rink, taking turns holding the prize.

We won the ultimate prize on the ice, but my real prize waits for me up in that suite. I hand the Cup back to Lawrence. I need to get off this ice. I need to get to our Omega.

We step off the ice. The concrete tunnel echoes with the roar of the home crowd. Fans lose their fucking minds in the stands above us. We just won the championship on our own ice. My ears ring from the noise.

Adrenaline buzzes under my skin. My heart hammers against my ribs. We dumped our skates and pads in the locker room, keeping our sweat-soaked undershirts and track pants on for the escape.

Reporters swarm the hallway like vultures. They shove microphones over the velvet barricades. Camera flashes explode in the dim light, blinding me. The media circus is a nightmare. They want quotes and soundbites about the Alpha Cup.

"Victor, how does it feel to bring the cup home?" A reporter shouts over the noise.

"Finn, insane game tonight!" Another voice echoes down the tunnel.

I ignore them. We keep walking.

Malcolm leads the way, using his size to clear a path. Finn walks beside me, sporting a breathless, exhausted grin. Lawrence trails behind, winking at a pissed-off reporter. Bruisesmark our jawlines. Cuts sting on our knuckles. But the exhaustion means nothing right now.

We turn the corner toward the private loading dock.

Olive stands in the hallway. Two security guards flank her to keep the stadium staff back. She wears my oversized black and gold jersey, the fabric hanging down to her thighs. She looks small standing in the concrete tunnel, but she commands the space.

The second she spots us, her brown eyes widen.

We cross the distance in three fast strides and crowd around her. We box her in against the cinderblock wall to shield her from the cameras.

The smell of her warm apple pie and cinnamon hits my lungs. The sweetness cuts right through the stench of sweat and ice shavings. Her scent spikes with arousal. She smells the victory on us, and her Omega reacts to the triumphant Alpha pheromones. A wave of slick scent hits the air.

Finn reaches her first. He pulls her into a tight embrace, burying his face in her neck with a ragged groan. Lawrence steps up to her right, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her hip flush against his side. Malcolm flanks her left, resting his large hand on the back of her head while his dark eyes burn with possessive heat.

I step up from behind, pressing my chest against her back. I wrap my arms around her shoulders, sealing the circle. "You saw us win."

"You guys were insane out there." She breathes the words, leaning her head back against my shoulder. Her body trembles. The heat of her skin burns through my sweat-soaked undershirt.

"We need to get out of here." Malcolm keeps his voice a low, vibrating rumble. "The press can go fuck themselves. We're going home."

"Let the league fine us." Lawrence flashes a dark smirk. "I texted our driver from the locker room to pull the car around. We have better shit to do tonight."

We form a protective wall around her. We ignore the team officials calling our names and push through the back exit doors. We step out into the private loading dock. The pre-arranged black SUV idles near the ramp with the driver holding the door open.

We pile into the back of the SUV. The doors shut, sealing us inside the quiet, tinted cabin. The driver hits the gas, navigating out of the chaotic arena parking lot.

The drive back to the mansion passes in a blur of frantic hands and hungry kisses. The post-game adrenaline crashes into an overwhelming wave of lust. Olive sits on Finn's lap. She kisses him hard while Lawrence trails open-mouthed kisses up her bare thigh. I grip the back of her neck, tracing her jawline with my thumb. The tension inside the car feels explosive.