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.

close. Should never have tied the game. If you’d been focused, it would have been a clean sweep.”

“He was good,” I said.

“He was better than good.” William corrected. “He was trained. Military background, I’d guess. Similar style to yours, actually. Almost like he learned from the same place you did.”

My blood ran cold.

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“I’m saying you should look into who that player really is,” William said. “Because I have a feeling he’s not just some random hockey player trying to make a name for himself. I think someone put him on that ice specifically to rattle you. To send a message.”

“What message?” I demanded.

“That’s for you to find out,” William said. “But you should know, that there are people out there who remembered what happened and who wants revenge.”

“Do you know who he is,” I said, reading between the lines, and knowing both my father can’t be trusted, and wondering also why he was playing too nice, but obviously it was for his best interest.

“I have suspicions,” William admitted. “But I need proof. So I’m having him investigated. And when I find out who he really is, I’ll let you know. Until then, watch your back. Because whoever sent him, they’re not done. And they want you down in this hockey games and I can’t let that happen.”

He walked away, leaving me standing there with one thing in mind.

‘My hockey enemy, is my father’s enemy’

I pulled out my phone and called Maxwire. My best finder.

“I need you to find out everything about a player,” I said when he answered. “His name is Alonso, Number 47. Edinburgh Raptors, background, everything. And I need it today.”

“Already on it,” Maxwire said. “Saw the game. That kid was incredible. Too incredible for someone who should be a nobody? I started running checks the moment he stepped on the ice.”

Good.

“And?” I demanded.

“You already know his name is Alonso. Alonso Rivera,” Maxwire said. “At least, that’s the name he’s using. But here’s the thing, Boss. Alonso Rivera didn’t exist ten years ago. No birth certificate. No school records. No paper trail whatsoever. It’s like he materialized out of thin air.”

“So, someone created a new identity for him,” I said.

“Exactly,” Maxwire confirmed. “Which means whoever he really is, someone went to a lot of trouble to hide it. To give him a fresh start. And the only reason you do that is if the person’s past is dangerous enough that they need to disappear.”

“Keep digging,” I ordered. ‘I want to know who he was before he became Alonso Rivera. And I want to know who paid for his new identity. I need that information in three days.”

“I’ll do my best,” Maxwire promised. “But Zane? Be careful. If this guy is connected to your past in any form, then someone’s deliberately bringing your history back to haunt you. And they’re doing it for a reason.”

I ended the call and stood there in the empty hallway, the sounds of celebration fading behind me.

Alonso Rivera.

The name meant nothing to me.

But those eyes. That voice. That fighting style.

They meant everything.

I just couldn’t remember why.