Chapter 3: The Fire Within

ZANE’S POV

The rink wasn’t loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

The scrape of blades cut across the ice, pucks ricocheting off the boards like gunshots, but none of it stuck. My body burned from the drills, sweat soaking through my gear, yet the fire inside me had nothing to do with practice. It was her. That intern. Lila Harper.

Her name had been plastered across my screen since the second I left the ice. Windy City Sports. Big bold letters. Her article was front and centre, tearing me apart like I was nothing more than a bloodthirsty spectacle for her to feed on.

Zane Callahan’s Violent Outburst: Another Reporter Burned by the Reaper.

I could barely see straight as I leaned against the tunnel wall, sucking air through my teeth, my chest heaving. Violent? Outburst? She’d made it sound like I’d torn her apart with my bare hands when all I’d done was bite back. I hadn’t laid a single finger on her. Sure, I’d snapped. Sure, I’d lost my temper. But she had crossed a line. She had poked wounds nobody had the right to touch.

Now, thanks to her, my name was rotting all over social media. Loose cannon. Spoiled rich kid. Hockey’s ticking time bomb.

I shoved my phone back into my pocket so hard the edges dug into my palm. But even without the article in front of me, the words burned in the back of my skull. Worse, her face wouldn’t leave me alone.

Hazel eyes, sharp and daring, holding steady against my fury. She wasn’t afraid of me. No—she looked at me like she saw through me. Like she knew I wasn’t just angry. Like she’d caught something under the surface I didn’t want anyone to see.

And I hated her for it.

My phone buzzed again, and when I pulled it out, my stomach sank. Mom.

Of course.

I answered, already bracing myself. “Yes, Mom?”

“Zane.” Eleanor Callahan’s voice sliced down the line like a whip. Cold, polished, dripping with disappointment. “Another headline. Another scandal. Do you ever stop to think about what this is doing to us?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, pacing the tunnel, skates biting into the rubber mat. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Really?” she shot back. “Because it looks like you screamed at some poor intern until she ran out crying, and now half of Chicago thinks you’re one bad shift away from assault charges.”

“She ambushed me, Mom,” I growled. My breath puffed white in the cold air. “She asked questions she had no right to ask. I didn’t touch her. And now she’s twisting the story like they all do.”

“Excuses,” she snapped. The word cracked across the line like a slap. “Your father has had it. The company’s image is circling the drain every time your name trends. You’re twenty-eight, Zane. It’s time to grow up, get married, and take your place where you belong. Hockey’s not your future—it’s an anchor, and it’s dragging you under.”

My chest constricted, a slow burn spreading behind my ribs. Here it was again—the same ultimatum, the same leash tightening around my throat.

Edward Callahan didn’t care about the game. Didn’t care that hockey was the only thing I wanted, the only place I ever felt alive. All he saw was a son wasting time, tainting the family name.

“Mother, we talked about this,” I said, each word jagged, dangerous.

“It’s your father’s decision not mine.” My mother’s tone shifted, softening into something worse than anger—disappointment wrapped in silk. Manipulation.

“We’ve found someone. Sophia Lang. She’s perfect. For you, for the company, for everything your father built. Marry her, settle down, and your father will stop breathing down your neck.”

Sophia Lang, the minister’s daughter. My lip curled before I could stop it. Slick, sharp, fake as glass. A pawn in their endless game. She wasn’t mine, never would be, and they damn well knew it.

I didn’t say anything to my mother. I couldn’t say anything. There was nothing I would say that would change her mind on this matter. The line went dead immediately.

I stared at the phone, fury simmering so hot it blurred my vision. Lila Harper. She’d lit the fuse. If she hadn’t written that article, I wouldn’t be standing here with my family’s leash around my throat, choking on ultimatums and arranged marriages. She thought she’d just written words on a screen. She had no idea she’d thrown me into the fire.

And God help me, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

The rink buzzed louder as my teammates spilled off the ice, voices low and sharp. I shifted into the shadows, listening, my pulse drumming in my ears.

“Callahan’s killing us,” Jake muttered, yanking his helmet off and running a hand through sweat-soaked hair. “And Coach isn’t saying anything because of his money and his name.”

Matt’s laugh was bitter, humorless. “Everything we make it to the news, it’s always for a bad reason, all thanks to him. Last season’s fight with Reynolds. Now this mess with the reporter. He’s such a liability.”

The words were knives. Not because they weren’t true, but because they were.

My fists clenched so tight my gloves creaked. I was better than both of them. I carried this team when it mattered. But I hadn’t been sharp. Not with my demons riling up against me, not with my parents yanking my leash tighter every damn day.

I stepped forward, out of the shadows, the sound of my skates on the mat echoing like thunder. Jake froze mid-sentence. Matt’s gloves slipped from his hands and hit the ground with a thud. The air thickened, tense, heavy with guilt.

I locked eyes with them, cold and unblinking, daring them to repeat a single word. Jake swallowed and dropped his gaze. Matt bent to pick up his gloves, hands shaking slightly. Neither of them said a thing.

The tunnel stretched before me, empty except for Coach Dawson blocking the mouth of it. Clipboard under his arm, shoulders squared, eyes sharp with warning.

“Callahan.” His voice carried the weight of authority, years of chewing players up and spitting them out. “The charity gala is tonight. It’s mandatory. You’re expected to show, shake hands, smile for the cameras, and behave. I don’t want a repeat of last season’s suspension.”

My jaw ached from how hard I clenched it. “Got it,” I said flatly.

“Good.” He didn’t move, didn’t blink. “Don’t make me regret keeping you on this roster.”

I brushed past him, the cold night air slapping me in the face as I stepped out of the rink.

The gala loomed in my mind, heavy and unavoidable. The last place I wanted to be, the last crowd I wanted to face. But one thought cut through the noise like a blade.

Lila Harper would be there.

She’d started this. She’d painted me as a monster, set fire to my life, and walked away unscathed. Tonight, I’d face her. And I’d make damn sure she knew exactly what she’d unleashed.

Hazel eyes. Sharp tongue. A spark I couldn’t ignore no matter how hard I tried.

She’d either be my undoing or my fight.

And tonight, we’d collide.