His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 13: Olive's Pov

Olive’s POV

The second Zane touched the ice, everything changed.

And it wasn't just me who noticed—the entire arena felt it.

The way he moved across that frozen surface like he'd been born on skates, fast and controlled, like the puck was just an extension of his body instead of something he had to chase.

Within thirty seconds of being out there, he already had possession.

Skating down the rink and weaving between Tigers players like they weren't even obstacles worth considering, just background noise in his path toward the goal.

Two defenders tried to block him, positioning themselves to cut off his route.

But he slipped past both without even slowing down, like they were moving through water while he was cutting through air.

"Go, go, go!"

My mother was on her feet beside me, screaming so loud I felt it in my bones.

And I realized I was standing too, leaning over the railing without remembering when I'd gotten up.

Grayson leaned forward in his seat, jaw tight and hands gripping his knees like he was physically restraining himself from jumping onto the ice and coaching from there.

Zane pulled his stick back.

And for a split second, the entire arena seemed to hold its breath.

And then he shot—the puck flew past the goalie's outstretched glove like it had been aimed by a laser, slamming into the net with a sound that made my heart jump.

The buzzer screamed through the speakers, cutting through every other noise.

"GOAL! Scored by Zane Mercer for the Chicago Wolves!"

The stadium erupted into pure chaos.

People jumping and screaming and hugging complete strangers, and I was on my feet before I even realized what I was doing, screaming with everyone else like I'd been a hockey fan my entire life instead of someone who'd never cared about sports until right now.

The cheerleaders went absolutely insane, jumping and spinning and losing their minds.

And the announcers were shouting over each other trying to describe what had just happened.

And my mother grabbed my arm so hard I'd probably have bruises tomorrow but I didn't care because Hunter's team was finally on the board.

Even Grayson was clapping, though it looked like it physically pained him to do it.

His jaw still clenched tight like he was fighting against his own hands.

Zane skated back to center ice like he'd just done the most mundane thing in the world.

Like scoring goals was as natural as breathing, casual and unbothered in a way that made him somehow even more attractive because he wasn't showing off—he just was.

The game restarted, and this time the Wolves had momentum on their side.

You could see it in the way they moved, faster and sharper and more coordinated than before, like Zane's goal had lit a fire under all of them.

Hunter had the puck now, passing it to Cole, who passed it right back.

And they were moving as a unit through the Tigers' defense, but my eyes kept drifting back to Zane even when he didn't have possession.

Watching the way he positioned himself, the way he read the game like he could see three moves ahead of everyone else.

He was everywhere at once, or at least it felt that way.

Stealing the puck from Tigers players who thought they were safe, setting up shots for his teammates, defending when he needed to even though that wasn't technically his position.

Moving across the ice like he owned every inch of it.

Another goal came, this time from Hunter.

And I watched the puck sail past the goalie's head and slam into the net, and suddenly we were tied at 2-2.

And my mother was screaming "That's my stepson!" so loud that people three rows back probably heard her over the crowd noise.

Grayson was actually smiling now.

A real genuine smile that I rarely saw from him, and for a moment I understood why he'd devoted his life to this sport, why it mattered so much.

Because there was something about watching people you cared about succeed that made your chest feel too small to contain everything you were feeling.

The game continued, back and forth across the ice in a blur of black and orange jerseys.

Bodies slamming into boards hard enough to rattle the glass, sticks clashing together with sounds like thunder, the puck flying across the ice so fast it was sometimes hard to track with my eyes.

And then Zane had it again.

Skating toward the goal with two Tigers defenders closing in from either side like they were trying to trap him in a vise.

And he needed to pass because there was no way he could take the shot with both of them on him, but I couldn't see anyone open, couldn't see where he could possibly send it.

"Come on!"

I heard myself scream, my voice raw from all the shouting I'd been doing.

Not caring that people were probably staring at me, not caring about anything except that puck and that goal and the need for them to connect.

He passed it at the last possible second.

Sending it flying across the ice to Hunter who I hadn't even seen get into position, and Hunter caught it and shot in one smooth motion that made it look easy even though I knew it wasn't.

Goal.

3-2, Wolves leading, and the arena shook with the force of everyone's voices combining into one massive roar of approval.

I was breathless, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Hands shaking from gripping the railing too hard for too long, and I finally understood why people got so worked up over sports.

Why they screamed at screens and painted their faces and wore jerseys like uniforms—because this feeling, this rush of adrenaline and hope and collective joy, was unlike anything I'd ever experienced.

The game kept going, neither team willing to give an inch.

And the Tigers scored to tie it up at 3-3, then the Wolves answered back to make it 4-3, and it kept going back and forth like that.

Each team matching the other's energy, each goal feeling like it could be the one that changed everything.

And through it all, Zane was a force of nature.

Untouchable in a way that made him seem almost superhuman, and every time he had the puck the crowd held its breath waiting for what came next.

And every time he scored they lost their minds like it was the first time all over again.

By the third period my throat was raw from screaming.

My voice barely working anymore but I kept using it anyway because stopping felt impossible, and the score was tied at 4-4 with only two minutes left on the clock.

Two minutes that felt like they could stretch into hours or compress into seconds depending on what happened next.

The Wolves had possession.

And Zane and one of the defenders were skating down the ice together, passing the puck back and forth between them in a rhythm that looked almost choreographed.

While the Tigers closed in from all sides trying to break up their momentum.

"Zane!"

I screamed, louder than I'd screamed all night, louder than I'd ever screamed at anything in my life.

And I didn't care that people were staring or that my mother looked shocked or that Grayson's jaw was clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack.

"ZANE!"

His name ripped out of my throat like something wild and desperate.

And I swear to God he glanced up for just a second, found me in the crowd even though there were thousands of people here.

And then he moved.

Faster than before, like my voice had been the catalyst he needed.

Like hearing his name in my mouth had lit something inside him that couldn't be contained, and he had the puck again with two Tigers players practically on top of him trying to steal it back.

But he was too fast, too good.

Moving with a precision that made it look effortless even though I knew it wasn't, and he pulled his stick back to take the shot—

And that's when I saw Cole abandon his position in the middle of the ice.

Skating straight toward Zane with an intensity that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with rage.