Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 156

ZANE

The second game starts just as ugly as the first. From puck drop, it's chaos. People swinging their sticks like they came here to die. Everyone's angry. Everyone wants blood.

We won yesterday, even if the whole league acted like it was some embarrassing accident. I didn't care. A win is a win. And that's what people expect from me. Zane Whitmoore. Winner. Champion. The standard.

New York can keep crying about it. They were the ones who lost.

The coaches screamed at us this morning, but I barely listened. Noise. All of it. At the end of the day, the scoreboard said what mattered.

I don't have time to think about regrets I don't have. Especially not regrets named Emilia. She's busy having the time of her life—front row, wearing Liam's jersey like she earned it. She looks ridiculous, but she's too clueless to realise that. And of course she's with that blonde friend again. The one who ruins everything. I told her to cut that girl off ages ago.

She will. Eventually. Once Liam finally sees her for what she is—someone who will never measure up to him. Someone who isn't built for the spotlight he lives in. He'll understand she doesn't belong beside him. He'll get bored. He'll drop her.

And then she'll remember who actually understands her. Who always did.

She'll come back to me.

And this time, I'm not letting go.

Never.

The puck drops again and suddenly the pace goes feral. New York wins the draw clean, and our defence is already scrambling like amateurs. Suta flies down the right side, cuts past Toby like Toby's a training cone, and fires.

The shot hits the post so hard the whole arena jumps.

We get possession back—barely—and then I'm moving. Fast. Faster than anyone else on the ice. That's how it always is. I call for the puck, get it, and carve my way through the neutral zone. Banks, is it? — tries to body me off it, but he just bounces.

The crowd reacts instantly. New York fans screaming their lungs out, our fans trying to keep up.

I pull back for a shot, release—

Blocked. I shake off the obvious smirk Cameron, NYC's obnoxious goalie, throws my way after the save and rein in my frustration.

Talentless fucker.

The second period barely settles when the stupidest thing that could possibly happen... happens.

The hit comes late.

Of course it's Stone.

He clips Liam along the boards just hard and dirty enough to be disrespectful. A hit meant to embarrass, not injure.

Liam turns so fast his helmet almost flies off.

"What the hell is your problem?" he snaps, grabbing Stone's jersey.

Stone smirks, leaning in like he lives off second-hand rage. "My problem? You skating around like the league's golden boy. Thought I'd remind you someone's not afraid of you."

Liam shoves him back, hard enough the ref yelps.

"You want to try me? Try me," Liam growls.

Stone laughs. "Relax, princess. I'm not your Fan Club President. Pretty sure that nasty bitch of yours is somewhere in the stands."

Liam lunges.

Aaron grabs Liam's arm.

I grab Stone's chestplate and yank him backward because if Liam swings, Stone will be in traction by sunrise.

But Stone won't shut up. He never does.

"Oh look, Whitmoore's here. Gotta protect your little crush?"

My teeth clench. Ever since Emilia had his ass handed to him, he's been insufferable. Ungrateful bastard. He selectively forgets that I was the one who got Whitney to bury his charges before they ruined his career. And this is how he repays me.

Liam tries again, practically dragging Aaron with him. "Say that again."

"Which part? The crush part? Or the part where I call your little whore in the crowd a nasty bitch?"

"Stone," I warn, because if he keeps talking Liam is going to do something we'll all regret.

But Stone only grins wider. "Maybe I'll hit you again later. See if you actually do something about it."

Liam's eyes go dark. Aaron's holding him like he's restraining a wolf.

The refs swarm in, whistles blaring, penalties flying left and right. The crowd erupts like someone set a bomb under the arena. And when the puck drops again, the whole building feels like a pressure cooker about to explode.

Regulation ends 1–1.

Overtime ends 2–2.

Shootout.

I hate shootouts.

Coach slaps my shoulder. "Whitmoore. You start."

Fine.

I take the puck, skate in fast, sell high blocker, snap it glove-side. Clean. Cold. Effortless.

Goal. Cameron flicks his glove like he meant to save it. I give him a smirk sharp enough to cut glass. Now we're even.

Suta goes first for them. He skates with that annoying swagger, winks at Liam as he passes the bench, and then gets stonewalled by our goalie. Good. Humble pie is best served frozen.

Stone goes next for us. Because of course Coach trusts him in shootouts.

He tries some spin move he has no business attempting, loses the handle, and shoots directly into Cam's pads.

He circles back, pretending it didn't happen. I pretend not to want to strangle him.

New York's next shooter misses. Our third misses.

Theirs does too.

The tension grows actual teeth.

Then Aaron steps out.

I hate how calm he looks. Like he's picking out flowers, not facing twenty thousand screaming fans.

He fakes left, lifts the puck right under the bar.

Goal.

Their bench explodes.

Banks goes next. Smooth. Deadly. He tucks it five-hole.

Goal.

If we miss the next one, it's over.

Our guy misses.

The whole arena inhales and does not exhale.

Liam steps out.

Of course he does.

Stone calls out from our bench, loud enough for everyone to hear: "Don't miss, sweetheart!"

Liam doesn't look at him. Doesn't blink. Doesn't breathe wrong.

He skates slow, like he's got all the time in the world. Cuts in. Drags the puck. Pulls the goalie one way, waits a half-second, and flicks it the other.

The net ripples.

The building detonates.

Game.

New York clears the bench, swarming him, screaming his name. Liam disappears under a pile of arms and helmets, like he's the sun and they're orbiting.

I just stand there, panting, watching him.

Stone jogs past me, his expression stormy. "Who knew the princess could finish, huh?"

* * *

When I finally get to my apartment, all I want to do is down five bottles of Scotch and smash each one after. Instead, I walk straight into Margot. Her hair's in a slick ponytail. She's in a nightgown that leaves nothing to the imagination — and looks dangerously like the one Becca wore last Halloween.

I see red.

"Get out."

She freezes. Only then do I notice the bottle of white wine dangling from her hand. I hate it. I hate the wine, the too-straight hair, the makeup caked on like a mask, the way she stands there staring me dead in the eye even though she can see I'm seconds from tearing something apart. Nothing like Emilia.

"I watched the game—"

"Good. Now get out."

"I was trying to cheer you up." Her voice turns sharp. "You never make an effort to see me unless I show up first. What? Starting to grow a conscience now that Becca's dead?"

I narrow my eyes. "Funny. I should be asking you that. She was your best friend, wasn't she? And you still spent a year trying to talk her out of dating me—"

Her fist tightens around the bottle.

"—all while fucking me behind her back. What? Is your conscience finally eating y—"

The slap lands before I finish. My jaw snaps sideways.

"You're a fucking dick," she spits. She scrambles for her clothes and storms out, slamming the door so hard the frame rattles.

Good fucking riddance.

I rub my jaw and finally notice the only sound in the now-empty place.

"—and investigations have begun, leading to the arrest of acting CEO of Whitney Pharmaceuticals, Morgan Whitney. The toxic ingredients found in the company's medication have allegedly caused multiple deaths and long-term harm, including to Morgan's former fiancée, Diana Vanderbilt, who we spoke to this morning—"

The reporter's voice turns into static as panic surges through me.

No. No, it can't be—

But the face on the screen is unmistakable. Emilia's psycho little sister. And Morgan Whitney's — my sponsor, my financial backbone, the reason I'm still in this league — equally as psycho fiancée. In the interview, she drones on about her "mysterious illness," how survivors reached out to her, how she launched a private investigation that exposed everything.

If this is true—

If any of this sticks—

The channel shifts to the next headline.

"Chicago's hockey sensation has gone viral tonight after a leaked hotel elevator video shows him with a woman alleged to be his late fiancée's best friend. This footage surfaced just hours after the Chicago Blizzards' crushing shootout loss to the New York Titans—"

My phone rings. Private number. I don't hesitate.

"Why?"

"Oh, come on," Diana drawls, her voice crawling into my ear like poison. "It's been so long, and that's all you have to say? We were going to be family, you know. Back when Emilia was still dumb enough to consider marrying you. Look how that turned out."

I grab Margot's wine bottle and smash it against the counter. Glass explodes everywhere.

"You fucking bitch—"

"What? You didn't like your gift?" she croons. "That's fine. I didn't expect you to. But don't worry — I know something like this won't ruin you."

"You're right," I snap. "It won't. You're just a little neurotic brat throwing a tantrum. And I have no idea why you've decided I'm today's target."

"Oh, since you really want to know..." She coughs then clears her throat. "Vixi is sick. If I hadn't been wasting time cleaning up my fiancé's messes, she wouldn't be. Then I realised the only reason he was giving me hell was to distract me from the fact that he's your sponsor. Your only backer. All that stress? All those lies? Because he was busy covering for you and that Stone bastard. Morgan's always loved scum."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "So that's your reason? This is exactly what I get for dealing with psychopaths' families. Let me disappoint you, Diana: this'll stain my name for a few months, maybe. By playoffs everyone will have moved on. Scandals happen all the time."

"You're right," she says sweetly. "But thank God you'll be in jail by then. Maybe a life sentence? Fifty years? Oh — and some advice. When Becca threatens to leak dirt that could ruin your career, make sure you get rid of every trace of it. Especially when there's a psychopath like me running loose." Her voice drops, velvet and venom. "And this is for Luther and Emilia, you sick freak."

A heavy knock slams against my door.

"Police! Open up!"

"You'll go to hell, you crazy bitch!"

"Oh, I plan on it," she says. "But only after I walk you in first."