Page 70 of Puck Your Charity

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 fileonto 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.