His Dangerous Love On Ice (Olivia and Zane) novel Chapter 101

Zane’s POV

Alonso stared back at me and quickly pulled back the second relew the whistle, separating us.

I watched him pulled back, his grey eyes locked on mine through both our visors, and there was something in his stare that made my chest tight, one which I didn’t recognized the first time I saw him.

Recognition. Hatred. Something deeper that I couldn’t name.

“Watch yourself, Mercer,” he said, his voice low enough that only could hear.

His voice hit me, but this time, it was different, different than how he had spoken when I had seen him with Olive.

And it felt so familiar.

Like I knew that voice.

But from where?

The ref was yelling at both of us, threatening penalties if we didnt get back in position. Number 47 skated away without another word, leaving me standing there trying to piece together memories that felt just out of reach.

“Zane!” Ryan’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Get your head in the game!”

I turned glaring at him and instantly he slides away in panic.

Less than two minutes left. Score tied. Everything on the line.

I skated back to position, but I couldn’t stop watching number 47 The way he moved. The way he held his stick. The aggressive stance that spoke of a harder training more than hockey practice.

Something too hard… too familiar… something I wasn’t able to see at first glance.

‘Military.’

The word hit me hard.

Clicking into my brain. A memory trying to surface.

No.

I shoved the thought away. Focused on the present.

The puck dropped.

Number 47 immediately took control, skating with a precision that was almost inhuman. I intercepted, stole the puck. passed to Ryan who took a shot.

Blocked by their goalie.

The clock ticked down. One minute thirty seconds.

Number 47 had possession again. He was heading for our goal, and I could see it in his eyes-he was going to end this game.

I pushed harder, caught up to him at center ice.

We battled for the puck, stick against stick, shoulder against shoulder, neither of us willing to give an inch.

Forty-five seconds.

He broke away, took the shot.

Our goalie caught it. Barely.

The crowd was losing their minds.

Thirty seconds.

We had possession now. I took the puck, skating as fast as I could toward their goal.

Number 47 was on me immediately, trying to steal it back, and we were locked in this violent dance across the ice.

Twenty seconds.

I could feel his breath, hear his grunts of effort, sense his absolute determination to beat me.

This wasn’t just a game to him.

This was personal.

Fifteen seconds.

I faked left, went right, got past him for just a second.

Enough time to see the shot.

Enough time to take it.

Ten seconds.

I released the puck. Hard. Fast. Perfect trajectory.

Their goalie dove.

The puck sailed past his glove.

Hit the back of the net.

GOAL

The buzzer sounded. Game over.

5-4. Wolves win.

The arena exploded into Chaos. My team swarmed me, yelling and celebrating and hitting my helmet.

But I wasn’t celebrating.

I was watching Alonso skit away, head down, shoulders tense with defeat.

And right before he disappeared into the tunnel, he looked back at me one more time.

That look. Full of something dark and unfinished.

Like this wasn’t over.

Like this was just beginning.

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