His Dangerous Love On Ice (Olivia and Zane) novel Chapter 100

Zane’s POV

One week later, game day arrived like a death sentence.

I’d tried calling Olive six more times over the past few days. She declined every single one. Sent two texts to voicemail. Blocked my third attempt entirely.

She was done with me.

And I couldn’t blame her.

The game was being held in Boston, neutral territory, big arena, sold-out crowd. Duncan had pulled out all the stops for his publicity stunt, and it was working. Every sports channel was covering it. Every hockey analyst was weighing in on whether the Edinburgh Raptors could actually compete with the Chicago Wolves.

The consensus was no. We were expected to dominate.

I sat in the locker room, suited up, staring at my phone.

One more try. One more attempt to reach her before I went out on that ice.

I pressed call.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

Voicemail.

“Muffin,” I said to the recording. “I know you don’t want to talk to me. I know you’re angry. But I need you to know that everything I did, I did because I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone hurting you. Even if that makes me just as bad as Cole. Even if that makes you hate me. I’d do it again. And also I lied about Cole. Never… I never sabotaged his Nike endorsement. I just… I didn’t know why I said that and lied about it… but I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me baby?”

I paused, trying to find the right words.

“The game’s starting soon,” I continued. “I don’t know if you’re watching. Probably not. But if you are… I’m going to win. Because that’s what I do. And after, I’m coming to see you. Whether you want me to or not. We need to talk. Really talk. About everything.”

I ended the call and tossed my phone in my locker.

“Talking to yourself?” Ryan’s voice came from behind me.

I turned to see my cousin fully geared up, helmet in hand, watching me with that same unreadable expression he’d had at my house.

“Making a call,” I said.

“To Olive?” Ryan asked, this time a smile creeping up on his face

“That’s none of your business,” I replied.

“Fair enough,” he said, moving to his own locker. “But you should know, Uncle Gary is in the VIP box. Watching. Making sure we win.”

“We’re going to win,” I said “We always do.”

“Do we?” Ryan said, a challenge. “Because you seem pretty distracted lately. Heard you’ve been declining practice. Missing team meetings. Focusing on other things

“I show up when it matters,” I said, trying to sound calm as possible for this game.

“Today matters.” Ryan said. “So show up.”

He walked out to join the rest of the team in the tunnel, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I wanted to walk towards him, break his nose again, and ask him who gave him the audacity to question me.

But he was right. I was distracted. Obsessed with Olive, with fixing things, with stopping whoever was threatening to destroy everything.

But right now, I needed to focus.

Needed to get through this game, prove my father wrong, and then deal with everything else.

I grabbed my helmet and headed for the tunnel.

The team was hyped, yelling, hitting each other’s pads, getting into the zone. Coach was giving his final pep talk about dominance and legacy and all the usual bullshit.

I tuned it out.

Focused on breathing. On centering myself. On remembering why I played this game in the first place.

Then the lights dimmed, the announcer started, and we skated out onto the ice.

The crowd roared. Deafening. Overwhelming.

I scanned the VIP boxes out of habit, looking for my father.

Found him easily. Front row. Arms crossed. Watching me like a hawk.

Next to him was Sophia, looking uncomfortable and angry.

And next to her was Cole.

Of course Cole was here. Probably Sophia’s plus-one. Probably here to watch me play and hope I failed.

But he was so lucky he wasn’t playing with me o this round. I would have ended him right here on this ice.

I looked away, focused on the opposing team skating onto the ic

The Edinburgh Raptors. Duncan’s team. They looked good, well trained, synchronized, confident.

But not good enough to beat us.

The ref dropped the puck and the game started.

First period was brutal. Fast. Aggressive. The Raptors were playing like they had something to prove, which made them reckless and easy to counter.

We scored twice in the first fifteen minutes.

Easy, Clean. Dominant.

Just like my father wanted.

I assisted on both goals, keeping my head in the game, ignoring the constant buzz of my phone in the locker room that I knew was probably more messages from the unknown number or Walter or from the club or maybe even Olive. That was quite tempting

Second period started the same way. We were up 3-0 within minutes.

Duncan’s team was getting frustrated. Making mistakes. Taking penalties.

We capitalized on every single one

Then, halfway through the second period, something changed.

The Raptors’ coach called a timeout and made a substitution.

End of second period, we were still up by one. Barely.

In the locker room, Coach was furious.

“What the hell is happening out there?” he demanded. “One player is making you all look like amateurs! Lock him down! I don’t care what it takes!”

Ryan looked at me. “You know who that is?”

“No,” I said, but it was a lie.

Because deep down, in some part of my brain I’d tried to bury, I did know.

I just couldn’t remember why.

Or maybe I didn’t want to remember.

“He’s good,” Ryan said. “Really good. If we don’t shut him down the third period, we might actually lose this.”

“We’re not losing,” I said firmly.

“Then figure out how to stop him,” Ryan challenged. And this was game. Everyone had the right to heat up.

Third period started and I went out there with one goal: stop number 47.

But he was everywhere. Fast. Relentless. Playing like he had something personal against me.

Every time I got close to him, he’d slip away. Every time I tried to block him, he’d find another angle.

It was like fighting a shadow.

With two minutes left, the score was tied 4-4.

And my father was going to be furious and this was going to make him mad, enraged.

That was my life’s mission.

The Raptors had possession. Number 47 had the puck.

He was skating straight for our goal, weaving through defense, and I knew-I KNEW-he was going to score.

I pushed harder, faster, caught up to him right before he could take the shot.

We collided. Hard. Violent. Both of us slamming into the boards

His helmet cracked against the glass and for a second, just a second. I saw his face clearly.

And my entire world stopped.

Because I knew that face.

Knew those eyes

I had seen them before, but why do they look too familiar, even though I had seen him before

There was something about his eyes, something I couldn’t pinpoint. Something too striking.