His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 80: Cole's Pov

Eight years ago.

Like every day after school, I spent my afternoons at my father's mechanic workshop, helping him fix broken car parts and engines that barely ran.

I'd always had a passion for hockey. Always wanted to be part of the big leagues from the moment I discovered I was good at it.

The small television mounted on the grimy wall flickered to ESPN—my father's favorite channel. On the screen was the latest NHL playoff game, and the star player glided across the ice like he owned it, eyes blazing with intensity as he scored the winning goal.

Zane Mercer.

"That boy's a beast," my father said, his head popping out from under the hood of a rusted sedan. "Really got himself a lifetime opportunity there."

"He's good. Really good." I wiped grease off my hands, unable to look away from the screen. "I wish I could be like him someday. Playing for the big teams. NHL."

My father chuckled—not cruelly, but knowingly. Tired.

"Son, I know you've got dreams of playing in the big leagues, but that man on the screen didn't just get there with hard work." He gestured at the TV with his wrench. "His father's rich. Wealthy. Might even be the next NHL VP someday. I once had dreams like yours too." He looked around the cramped, oil-stained workshop. "See where that landed me. But at least it pays the bills."

Something in his words shifted something inside me. Something dark and magnifying.

My father wasn't rich. Wasn't connected. Wasn't anything.

But I didn't care how long it would take—I'd do whatever it took to prove I wouldn't end up like him. I'd never be some nobody in a workshop fixing other people's broken cars for pennies.

Never.

****

I stared at the magazine in my hands now, the memory crashing through me.

I stared at the man I'd always admired—the one who'd ended an entire rival hockey club by defeating them in every single game, bankrupting their franchise with his dominance. The man I'd always wanted to be like. The man I'd wanted to notice me, even if just once.

At the things I'd done to try to reach that level.

The man I'd had to become.

But nothing had prepared me for what I'd seen in her apartment three nights ago.

I couldn't remove the images from my head. The screams. Her moans. The way she'd begged for him.

'Fuck...'

She'd never moaned like that for me. Never told me I was good. Never looked at me the way she'd looked at him through that closet gap.

I couldn't even count how many times we'd had sex during our entire relationship. Maybe twice? Three times?

And she'd just laid there like a log of wood every single time.

I squeezed the magazine harder, crumpling the pages, not realizing when I'd started tearing it apart.

"You were always pathetic, Olive. Always weak. When did you turn into this?" I hissed at the empty room. "To have someone like Zane notice you—what witchcraft did you use? You were meant to crumble when I left. You were meant to beg me, to let me mold you into what I wanted. Not become some... Zane-worshipper. The one Zane gets to fuck. To touch. To be with."

My voice rose to a shout.

"You don't fucking deserve him!"

I screamed it, my hand smashing hard against the vase on my desk. Glass shattered, pieces slicing through my palm, but I ignored the blood dripping onto the floor.

Because I'd had a plan from the beginning. A perfect plan.

Sophia's plot was supposed to end Olive—destroy her completely, send her crawling back to me broken and desperate.

Not leave me hiding in a closet watching her get fucked while she screamed his name.

"Those screams were meant for me. Only me," I whispered, then laughed—a pathetic, unhinged sound that echoed off the walls.

I was going insane.

And the truth I'd been trying to ignore hung over my head like a guillotine.

But I wasn't going to admit it. Wasn't going to accept it.

That Olive Monroe was still in my head.

"Pathetic," I spat. "I'm supposed to be in your head. You're supposed to be sobbing on calls, begging me to come back. Not moving on so quickly. Fuck you, Olive. Fuck you."

I slumped into my chair, entire body shaking, and a high-pitched scream erupted from my lips.

Suddenly, my phone rang.

I stared at the screen.

Sophia.

I froze, heart thudding painfully.

I'd been avoiding her since the party—hadn't seen her for three days now because I was too broken, too consumed with what I'd witnessed. I'd fed her lies about having the flu, not wanting her to get infected.

I took a deep breath and answered.

"Hello, baby..."

"Cole—oh my god, Cole—" Her voice crashed through the speaker, broken and shaking. For a second, genuine fear shot through me.

"Sophia, what's wrong?"

"My deals—all my brand deals, my ambassadorships—they've been canceled. Terminated. Even the Vogue Italia cover I've been waiting for, the one that would've changed everything—" Her voice cracked. "They're all gone. Oh my god..."