His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 102: OLIVE’s POV

I'd told myself I wasn't going to watch the game.

Told myself I didn't care, that Zane could win or lose and it wouldn't affect me either way, that I was done letting him occupy space in my head.

But at 6:55pm I found myself sitting in my office with the live stream pulled up on my computer screen, pretending I was catching up on work emails like I wasn't about to watch him play.

Brenda walked past my desk, glanced at my screen, and smirked in that way that told me she knew exactly what I was doing.

"Not watching, huh?" she said.

"I'm just checking something," I lied, not even convincing myself.

"Sure you are." She pulled up a chair without asking. "Mind if I not watch with you?"

I almost smiled despite everything that was happening, despite the mess my life had become. "Shut up."

The game started and I tried to focus on anything except Zane, tried to watch the puck and the plays and the strategy, but my eyes kept finding him like they had a mind of their own.

Number 18, Chicago Wolves, moving across the ice like he owned every inch of it.

God, he was beautiful when he played, he looked dangerous and had this control and raw magnetism that made it impossible to look away.

"He's good," Brenda observed, somehow producing popcorn from thin air. "Really good. No wonder you're obsessed."

"I'm not obsessed," I said automatically, the denial tasting like a lie even to me.

"Right, and I'm not currently eating my feelings because JT keeps hinting about proposals and I keep panicking." She shoved another handful of popcorn in her mouth. "We're both totally fine."

That got my attention enough to tear my eyes from the screen. "You're still scared about that?"

"Terrified," Brenda admitted, her voice carefully neutral in a way that meant she was definitely not neutral about it. "Every time he brings it up I change the subject, make excuses, and say I'm waiting for the right moment."

"Maybe you are," I offered, but we both knew it was weak.

"Or maybe I don't actually want to marry him," she said quietly. "Maybe I just like the idea of him but not the reality. Maybe I'm a terrible person who's wasting his time because I'm too scared to be honest."

"You're not terrible," I said, meaning it.

"Neither are you," she shot back. "Even though you're sitting here pretending you're not watching your insanely hot boyfriend play hockey."

"He's not my boyfriend." The words came out sharp, defensive. "It's just a… It’s nothing.” I said instead, I wasn’t ready to tell her that this was just a game. All of this.

"Keep telling yourself that," Brenda said, but her tone was gentle. "Maybe eventually you'll believe it, that this is more than Cole. And speaking about that Brat. Did he tried to pester you again?"

Before I could respond the second period started and everything changed, the energy on the ice shifting into something darker and more intense.

A new player appeared on the opposing team, number 47, and the moment he touched the ice my stomach dropped because I recognized him.

It was too easy.

Alonso.

The guy from my family dinner, the one Zane had been weird about, the one I'd thought was interested in me before Zane made it very clear I should only think about him.

"Holy shit," I breathed.

"What?" Brenda followed my gaze. "Who's that?"

"Someone I know." I leaned closer to the screen, watching as Alonso stole the puck and wove through defenders like they were standing still. "I didn't know he played."

"Well he definitely plays," Brenda said as Alonso scored with a shot so smooth it looked effortless. "Damn, he's good."

He was more than good, he was incredible, and the way he moved across the ice made it obvious this wasn't just a game to him.

It was personal.

The match turned into something brutal and intense, Zane and Alonso going head to head like they were trying to prove something to each other, neither willing to back down or show weakness.

"These two definitely have history," Brenda observed. "Look at them. This isn't competitive, this is personal."

I wanted to disagree but I couldn't, because she was right, there was something in their body language every time they got close that felt familiar and aggressive and almost intimate in its intensity.

But how? They'd only met once at my family dinner, so how could there be history?

The game ended with Zane scoring the winning goal in the last ten seconds, the crowd going insane, his team celebrating around him.

But Zane didn't celebrate.

He just stood there watching Alonso skate away, and even through the camera I could see something on his face that looked almost like recognition mixed with confusion.

"Well that was dramatic," Brenda said, standing and stretching. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Another lie. "Fine."

"You're terrible at lying," she said. "But I'll let it slide. Come on, let's go get drinks. You look like you need about seven of them."

"I can't, I have to—"

My phone rang, cutting me off, and when I looked at the screen my heart sank because of course it was him.

Walter.

"I have to take this," I told Brenda.

"Of course you do." Her expression shifted to concern. "Call me later, okay? Promise?"

"Promise," I agreed, waiting until she left before answering. "What?"

"Olive." Walter's voice came through sounding strained. "I'm outside your building. We need to talk."

"No we don't," I said flatly.

"Yes we do, about Zane, about what your mother said to me, about everything." He paused. "Please, just five minutes."

I should have said no, should have hung up and blocked his number, but something in his voice made me hesitate.

"Fine," I said. "Five minutes."

I grabbed my bag and headed downstairs, finding Walter leaning against his car in the parking lot holding flowers and looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.

Huge, expensive flowers, and a gift box on his car bonnet.