Chapter 7: Olive's POV

I'd found a reasonable place to have coffee not long after, tucked into a corner of the hotel café, nursing lukewarm coffee and debating whether my life had always been this much of a trainwreck or if it was a recent development.

Spoiler: It was recent.

Three days in Chicago, and I'd already been mistaken for a creative director, cornered by the hottest hockey player alive, offered some mysterious deal I'd been smart enough to refuse, and spent every waking moment trying not to think about said hockey player's bare chest and wet dreams.

I was doing great.

The café was quiet-thank God-just the soft hum of espresso machines and the occasional clink of dishes. I'd needed this. Space to think. To breathe. To figure out what the hell I was doing with my life.

And then the door opened.

I looked up.

And immediately wanted to throw myself out the window.

No.

It had been two years since I'd seen Ryan Mitchell, and the universe had been kind enough to keep it that way. But apparently, my luck had officially run out.

He spotted me instantly-because of course he did-and his face split into that same obnoxious grin I remembered from college. The one that made you want to punch him and also wonder if he was actually aware of how annoying he was.

He started walking toward me.

I considered running.

But my legs didn't move. Just stayed frozen as I watched him approach, all cocky swagger and that stupid hair flick he'd never grown out of. He swiped a hand through his sandy blonde hair, blowing out fake heat from his face like he'd just run a marathon instead of crossing a café.

His teeth were too white. His smile too wide.

I almost gagged.

"Oh, come on." He stopped in front of my table, hands on his hips, looking like he'd just won the lottery. "Don't tell me who we have here. If this isn't fate, I don't know what is."

"Fuck off, Ryan." I took a sip of my coffee, not bothering to look at him. "Fate is for paranormal romance novels. And you, buddy, don't look paranormal to me."

He burst out laughing.

That was the thing about Ryan-he didn't understand insults. Not because he was slow, but because he'd somehow convinced himself that verbal abuse was flirting.

"God, I love it when you insult me." He pulled out the chair across from me without asking and sat down. "It makes me hot. Turned on, even. That's why I always came to you. Free spank bank material, you know? Easier that way."

My face folded in disgust. "You're a walking HR violation."

"And you're still gorgeous when you're pissed." He leaned back, completely unbothered. "So what's new? Break any hearts lately? Ruin any lives?"

I set my cup down, debating whether throwing hot coffee in his face would be worth the assault charge.

I'd been sitting here, spiraling about my encounter with Zane. About the possibility-the dangerous possibility-that I might actually end up in over my head with him. The kind of over my head that involved his hands, his mouth, and a very bad decision.

And now Ryan had barged in and ruined even my fantasies.

"You're a child, Ryan," I said flatly. "And I'm glad I gave you the best three months of your freshman year. Now fuck off."

He laughed harder. "Oh, come on. That was four years ago. I graduated last year, pulled my life together, and here I am. Living the dream."

I grunted, already exhausted. "Good for you. Door's that way."

"Still got those daddy issues, huh?" He tilted his head, studying me like I was a science project. "That tone sounds exactly like the one you used to give when your dad-"

"Shut the fuck up."

I slammed my cup down hard enough that coffee sloshed over the rim.

Ryan blinked, startled for half a second before his grin returned.

That was Ryan's specialty-pushing until you snapped, then acting like your reaction was the punchline. He didn't care how much he hurt you as long as he got under your skin. It was his life's work.

And I'd been stupid enough to sleep with him in college.

"Okay, okay." He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Touchy subject. Got it. So is it daddy issues or new boyfriend issues? Because that look on your face screams 'man trouble.'"

I pressed my fingers to my temples. "Why are you here, Ryan?"

"Funny you should ask." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. "I got myself a hobby. Joined the NHL."

I stared at him.

Blinked.

Stared some more.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"NHL, baby." He tapped the table twice. "Chicago Wolves. Just got called up."

My brain tried to process this information and failed spectacularly.

"They're just picking up random scumbags off the street now?" I asked slowly. "Or did DADDY pull some strings for his little boy?"

Ryan's jaw tightened. "Always going for the throat, huh?"

"You make it so easy."

"I worked hard for this, Olive." His voice dropped, and for a second-just a second-he almost sounded serious. "Really fucking hard. You think I'd end up useless? And leave my dad out of this. I've got stronger connections through my mom's side."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so Mommy helped you out."

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You're impossible."

"And you're still talking."

"My uncle," he said through gritted teeth, "Gary Mercer. Senior VP of NHL operations. He helped me pull the strings. And now I'm here, playing on the same team as my favorite cousin."

My stomach dropped.

"Cousin?"

Ryan's grin returned, sharper now. "Zane Mercer. You might've heard of him. Best player in the league. Total god on the ice. Ring any bells?"

I couldn't breathe.

Zane Mercer was Ryan's cousin?

Chapter 8: Olive's POV

"Small world, huh?" Ryan was watching me now, eyes glinting with something I didn't like. "So here's my advice-stop dreaming about guys like Zane. He's way out of your league. Dated models, actresses, socialites. Stick with me instead. I'm only eight months younger than you. We'd be perfect."

Something snapped.

Maybe it was the condescension in his voice. Maybe it was the assumption that I couldn't have Zane even if I wanted him. Maybe it was the fact that I'd spent the last three days being underestimated by every man I encountered.

"And what happens," I said slowly, "if I can catch your cousin's attention?"

Ryan froze.

Then he burst out laughing. "Oh my God, you're serious."

"Dead serious."

His laughter died when he saw my face. "Wait." He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You actually think you could-no. No way. Olive, I love you, but Zane doesn't even look at girls like you. He's-"

"Let's make it interesting," I interrupted. "A bet."

Ryan's eyebrows shot up. "A bet?"

"If I can get Zane Mercer to kiss me-publicly, where people can see-you pay me a hundred thousand dollars."

His mouth fell open.

For a moment, he just stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Then, slowly, his grin returned. Wider. Sharper. Dangerous.

"A hundred thousand dollars," he repeated. "For a kiss."

"A public one. PDA. Something that leaves no room for doubt."

He laughed, low and disbelieving. "You're insane."

"Do we have a deal or not?"

He studied me for a long moment, and I could see the wheels turning in his head. He was calculating. Weighing the odds. Deciding whether I was bluffing.

Then he leaned back, arms crossed. "Fine. But if you can't-if you fail to wrap my untouchable cousin around your pretty little finger-then you're mine."

My blood ran cold.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." His eyes dropped to my chest-still fully covered by my oversized sweater-and dragged back up with a look that made my skin crawl. "If you lose, I get to do everything I've been fantasizing about since college. And trust me, Olive, I've been very creative."

Bile rose in my throat. "You're disgusting."

"And you've got three days." He stood, shoving his chair back with a screech. "Three days to seduce the most untouchable man in professional hockey, or you're mine. Clock starts now."

He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Olive?" His grin was pure malice. "I'm going to enjoy winning this."

He walked away, already pulling out his phone and muttering about Bitcoin dropping two percent.

I sat there, frozen, staring at the spot where he'd been.

What the hell had I just done?

Three days.

I had three days to kiss Zane Mercer-publicly-or become Ryan Mitchell's prize.

A laugh bubbled up in my chest. Bitter. Hysterical.

Because if anyone had told me a week ago that I'd end up in this situation-running from one problem straight into a bigger, more catastrophic one-I would've laughed in their face.

But here I was.

Trapped in a bet I couldn't afford to lose.

Against a man I'd stupidly refused just days ago.

A man who probably wouldn't even remember my name.

Another laugh escaped, louder this time, and I felt a tear slip down my cheek.

"I'm so fucked," I whispered.

And this time, it wasn't a joke.

Because I knew Ryan wasn't joking either. I'd seen it in his eyes-the hunger, the certainty that he'd already won.

It was either win or lose.

And I wasn't about to lose.

My heart pounded as I grabbed my phone, staring at the blank screen.

I needed to find Zane.

I needed to grovel, beg, plead-whatever it took to get him to agree to whatever deal he'd offered before.

Because losing to Ryan Mitchell wasn't an option.

Not now.

Not ever.

Chapter 9: ZANE's POV

I sat on the balcony, cigarette between my fingers, half-listening to the guys lose their minds over tomorrow's game.

The team had decided to throw a party the night before our biggest match of the season. Because apparently, getting drunk and high before a championship game was peak athletic performance.

Idiots.

Nike was going on about how this was his first big paycheck. How he was going to buy his mom a new car and pay off his sister's college tuition. Noble. Cute. Boring as fuck.

I took a drag and let the smoke fill my lungs, eyes fixed on the city lights stretching out below us.

The last thing I wanted was to be here.

But I had to be. Had to play the part. Had to sit here with these boys and pretend I gave a shit about their dreams and their families and their fucking first paychecks.

Because if I didn't, I'd do something stupid.

Like walk into her suite. Climb through her window. Press her against the wall and make her understand exactly why rejecting me was the worst decision she'd ever made.

Three days.

I'd given her three days to come crawling back.

And she hadn't.

Stubborn little thing.

I smirked, ashing the cigarette over the railing.

She thought she could walk away from me. Thought she could stand there in that hotel room, all fire and fury, and tell me to "find someone else to play chess with."

Like I was just some bored rich boy looking for entertainment.

She had no idea what game she'd walked into.

The door to the suite opened, and the room went silent.

I didn't even have to look to know who it was. I felt the shift in the air-the way tension crawled up everyone's spine when he walked in.

Hunter Sinclair.

The kid whose slot I'd bought with a single conversation. The one who'd sold out his sister for a chance to play in the big leagues.

I remembered how I'd arranged a meeting with him. How he'd frozen when he saw the very man he couldn't withstand. How I'd offered him that proposition, ensuring he knew I gave no fucks about him and all I was interested in was his stepsister.

How he'd accepted with trembling hands. So quick. So fast. So easy.

I glanced over my shoulder.

He stood in the doorway, jaw clenched, eyes locked on me like he wanted to put his fist through my face.

I raised my cigarette in a mock salute.

His jaw tightened further.

Yeah. He still hated me.

Good.

Beside him, another figure stepped into the room, and my smirk faded.

Cole Maddox.

The walking, talking embodiment of everything I despised. The kind of man who slithered his way into women's lives, used them, and discarded them the second someone more useful came along.

The kind of man who'd destroyed my mother.

And now he had his claws in my sister.

Cole's eyes lit up the second he saw me. Like a fucking puppy seeing its owner. He nudged past Hunter, settling onto the couch with an eagerness that made my stomach turn.

He wanted my approval. Wanted to be close to me. Wanted to prove he belonged.

But I wanted to drag him to the underground club and let my boys work him over until he confessed why the fuck he was still sniffing around Sophia.

But not here.

Not yet.

I turned back to the balcony, taking another drag.

"Okay, men." Ryan's voice cut through the tension, loud and obnoxious as always. "We need to talk about women."

I rolled my eyes. Of course we did.

Ryan was my cousin by blood, but I'd disown him if I could. The kid had been handed everything-his slot on this team, his trust fund, his entire fucking life-and still acted like he'd earned it.

My father had only brought him on because Ryan's mother-my aunt-had begged. Said her son needed a "real opportunity."

What he needed was a personality transplant.

"So I met this woman," Ryan continued, leaning forward like he was about to share state secrets. "A very hot-ass woman."

The guys leaned in, grinning. Someone passed him a joint.

I stayed on the balcony, but I was listening now.

"And I made a bet with her." Ryan took a hit, exhaling slowly. "If she can't get the attention of someone in this room, I get to do whatever I want with her. And I mean whatever."

The room erupted. Guys cheering, slapping Ryan's back, laughing like he'd just told the funniest joke in the world.

My hand tightened around the cigarette.

"So who is she?" someone called out.

Ryan paused, his eyes flicking to me.

And something in his expression made my blood run cold.

That little shit.

"Can't say her name yet," Ryan said, grinning wider. "She's new around here. But God, she's sexy as fuck. Dark hair. Green eyes. Ass so perfect that if she sat on your face, you'd cum every day for the rest of your life."

My cigarette snapped between my fingers.

Dark hair. Green eyes.

I turned slowly, eyes locked on Ryan.

He was still talking, describing her like she was a piece of meat he'd won at a fucking carnival. And the guys were eating it up, howling and making crude gestures.

But I wasn't listening anymore.

Because my eyes found Hunter.

And Hunter looked like he'd been punched in the stomach.

His face had gone pale. His jaw slack. His eyes wide with horror as he stared at Ryan.

He knew.

Hunter knew exactly who Ryan was talking about.

Olive.

Ryan had made a bet. With Olive.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out, and my chest tightened.

Olive Monroe.

She was calling me.

I stared at the screen, watching her name flash over and over.

She'd rejected me three days ago. Told me she didn't need my help. Didn't want my games. Walked out of that hotel room like I was nothing.

And now she was calling.

Which meant something had changed.

Which meant she was desperate.

I should answer. Should pick up and hear that fire in her voice, that desperation she was probably trying to hide.

Feel how the desperation would make my cock rock hard.

But I didn't.

I let it ring.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Then I swiped to decline.

Because I'd given her three days, and she'd wasted them.

Now she'd have to earn it.

Ryan was still talking, describing her body, her eyes, her attitude. And the guys were laughing, imagining what they'd do if they won a bet like that.

I stood, crushing the broken cigarette under my boot.

Hunter's eyes snapped to me, wide and panicked.

And I smiled.

Not the polite smile I used for press conferences or charity events.

The smile I used in the underground club when someone owed me money. When someone had fucked up. When someone was about to learn exactly who they were dealing with.

Because Olive had just walked into a game she didn't understand.

And Ryan-stupid, arrogant Ryan-had handed her to me on a silver platter.

She'd rejected my deal.

But now she needed me.

And this time, I wasn't going to make it easy.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket and walked past Ryan, past Hunter, past Cole.

"Leaving already?" someone called out.

I didn't answer.

I had work to do.

And a very stubborn woman to teach a lesson.