His Dangerous Love On Ice (Olivia and Zane) novel Chapter 22

Zane’s POV

“Hunter was in a better position,” I said, keeping my voice flat and professional like I gave a shit about his opinion. “It was a team decision.”

“Bullshit,” my father snapped, and I could practically hear his blood pressure rising through the phone. “You know what Grayson did to me, what that family represents, and you just handled his stepson the winning goal like it was nothing.”

“It was about winning the game,” I said, even though we both knew that was only partially true. “Not about your personal vendettas.”

“Everything is about my personal vendettas, and don’t you forget it,” he said, his voice dropping into that dangerous quiet that used to scare me when I was younger but now just made metired. “You play for my team, you live in a house I helped you buy, you drive cars I put in your name”

“I bought that house with my own money,” I interrupted, unable to stop myself even though I knew it would make things worse. “The money I made playing the sport you pushed me into. Silence on the other end, the kind that meant he was deciding whether to escalate or take a different approach, and I waited. phone pressed to my ear hard enough that it hurt.

“I need you back in Seattle,” he said finally, changing tactics like he always did when he realized he wasn’t going to win the argument. “Three days. We have investors to meet, and you need to be there representing the family.”

Seattle, where he lived, where I’d grown up in a house that felt more like a museum than a home, where every surface reminded me of my mother and everything he’d failed to do to protect her.

“I have training,” I said, which was partially true, though I could probably skip it if I wanted to.

“Cancel it.” he said, like it was that simple, like my career and my commitments didn’t matter as much as whatever show he wanted to put on for his business partners. “Three days, Zane. Don’t make me come to Chicago to drag you back.”

I’d made her mine, had claimed her in a closet like some kind of mal, and now I had to figure out what the hell that meant for both of us.

Seattle could wait, I decided, pulling out my phone again and staring at her name in my contacts, my thumb hovering over the call button before I forced myself to lock the screen.

Give her space, I told myself, even though every instinct I had was screaming at me to call her, to make sure she was okay, to hear her voice and know that she wasn’t regretting what we’d done.

But I didn’t call, didn’t text, just stood in my empty kitchen and tried to convince myself that this was the right move, that patience was a virtue, and all that bullshit.

Three days, and then I’d figure out what to do about the girl who somehow gotten under my skin in less than a week, the girl my father would hate on principle alone, the girl I was pretty sure was going to destroy me in the best possible way.