Claimed By The Hockey Star

Chapter One Venessa’s pov “Tell me your name.” I tightened my grip on the glass until my knuckles turned a stark, painful white, forcing myself to glare up at the massive man who had me utterly cornered against the mahogany bar. My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird trying to break its way out of a cage. Around us, the bass from the rooftop club’s sound system pulsed through the floorboards, vibrating right up into the soles of my heels, but the deafening music felt miles away. All I could focus on was him—his sheer, overwhelming size, the radiating heat bleeding through his clothes, and the way he looked down at me like I was a prize he’d already won. “Why?” I snapped, trying desperately to inject a bravado into my voice that I didn’t possess. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at his lips, a silent acknowledgment that he saw right through my defenses. Khalid Al-Mansour. Even if I hadn’t spent the last two years seeing his face plastered across sports networks and billboards downtown, the raw, predatory power rolling off him in waves would have screamed danger. He was six-foot-five of pure, lethal muscle and unadulterated arrogance, wrapped in a tailored black button-down that looked painted onto his broad shoulders.The Beast.That was what the sports analysts called him. The media loved the moniker, and opposing teams feared it. He was the most ruthlessly efficient captain the Arctic Wolves had ever seen, a man known for dismantling his opponents on the ice without an ounce of mercy. And right now, that beast wasn’t on the ice. He was standing in a VIP lounge, staring straight at me as if I were his next target. “Because I don’t forget the faces of women who crash into me,” he said. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone, sliding over my exposed collarbones like a physical dare. “It was an accident,” I shot back, my voice tight. “Didn’t feel like one.” His dark, obsidian eyes dragged slowly down the length of my body, taking their sweet time, appreciating the curve of my waist and the line of my legs before locking back onto mine with suffocating intensity. “And now you’re shaking.” “I’m not shaking.” “Liar.” Damn him. He was right. My hands were trembling so badly that the ice cubes in my untouched vodka-cranberry rattled softly against the glass, a tiny, embarrassing metronome betraying my panic. I hadn’t meant to slam into him. I hadn’t even wanted to come to this godforsaken rooftop party tonight. My best friend, Mia had begged me for days, insisting that scoring invites to the Arctic Wolves’ season-opening celebration was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I had finally relented, promising myself I’d stay for an hour, keep a low profile, and slip away early. But the crowd had swelled, the VIP section had become a chaotic sea of expensive suits and towering athletes, and I’d lost sight of Mia near the lounge entrance. Attempting to navigate the crush of people to find her and make my escape, I’d taken a sharp turn around a pillar and bounced straight into what felt like a wall of solid marble. A wall of solid muscle, as it turned out, smelling of cedarwood, silver amber, and expensive cologne. Now, I was completely trapped. His broad frame blocked my exit so effortlessly it made my chest tighten. He didn’t even have to touch me; his shadow alone was enough to keep me rooted to the spot. That heavy, masculine scent of his wrapped around my senses, making the air feel thick and hard to swallow. “I need to go,” I said, attempting to take a step to the left to slip past his arm. He shifted his weight with a lazy, athletic grace, cutting off my escape route before I could even take a full step. “You’re not going anywhere yet, little liar.” My stomach flipped violently. The terrifying part was that the sensation wasn’t entirely born out of fear. There was a spark of heat pooling low in my belly unwanted, unexpected, and utterly terrifying. I had rules. Strict, unbreakable, iron-clad rules designed to keep my life predictable and safe. No athletes. No celebrities. No men who lived their lives under the relentless, burning glare of the public eye. I had spent years guarding my privacy, building a quiet, carefully curated existence far away from the kind of drama that followed men like Khalid Al-Mansour. He was a walking, talking red flag wrapped in a designer watch and a wicked smile. He was exactly the kind of man who could ruin a woman’s life with a single, reckless touch. I wasn't going to let a hockey god destroy the peace I’d fought so hard to achieve. But Khalid wasn’t moving an inch. If anything, he crowded closer, bracing one massive, scarred hand on the edge of the bar right beside my hip. He caged me in against the counter, his chest hovering mere inches from mine, close enough that the heat radiating from his skin soaked through the thin fabric of my dress. “Do you always manhandle women who accidentally bump into you?” I challenged, forcing myself to lift my chin and meet his gaze straight-on. “Or am I getting the special treatment?” His smirk deepened, flashing a row of perfect white teeth that contrasted sharply with his rugged, shadowed jawline. “You’re special. Most women who crash into me don’t look like they want to slap me and kiss me at the same time.” A furious, burning heat flooded my face, scorching my cheeks. “I do not want to kiss you.” “Save it.” His voice dropped to a rough whisper, his head tilting down so his breath brushed against my ear. “I felt it. The exact second your body hit mine. That jolt. That spark. Don’t pretend you didn’t feel it, Venessa.” I froze, the breath catching in my throat. How did he I hadn't told him my name. I opened my mouth to demand how he knew it, but the realization hit me a second later. He hadn't called me by my name. He was just speaking. Or had he? My mind was spinning so fast I could barely think straight. God, I hated how right he was about the spark. The electric shock that had ripped through my nervous system the moment our bodies collided was still humming under my skin, making my nerve endings tingle. I swallowed hard, my pulse thundering so loudly in my ears I was certain he could hear it. “Name,” he demanded again, softer this time. It wasn't a question; it was a command, delivered with a low, possessive growl that sent a shiver straight down my spine. Every survival instinct I possessed screamed at me to shut my mouth, push past him, and run for the elevators. I shouldn't give him anything. I shouldn't give him a foothold in my life. But under the heavy, hypnotic weight of his stare, my defenses crumbled just enough for the word to slip out. “Venessa.” “Venessa,” he repeated, his dark eyes tracking the movement of my lips. He spoke my name slowly, tasting the syllables as if they already belonged to him. His gaze dropped to my mouth for a long, agonizing second, the intent behind it so heavy it made my knees feel weak, before he looked back up to lock eyes with me. “I’m Khalid.” “I know who you are,” I whispered. “Good.” He still hadn't touched me, not a finger, not a hand but the sheer intensity of his focus felt more intimate, more invasive, than any physical touch could ever be. “Then you know I don’t chase, Venessa. I catch And I keep.” A violent shiver raced down my spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. I should have been outraged. I should have pushed his massive chest away, screamed for security, or thrown my sticky drink right into his arrogant, handsome face. Instead, I stood there like a statue, completely paralyzed, caught in the dark, obsessive promise of his eyes. It was a promise of danger, of surrender, of things I had only ever dared to fantasize about in the darkest, quietest corners of my mind. Around us, the party raged on. The bass thudded, people laughed, and somewhere across the lounge, the telltale flashes of paparazzi cameras cut through the dim lighting. But Khalid didn’t glance away once. The entire world could have burned to ash around that rooftop bar, and he wouldn't have noticed. His undivided attention was locked entirely on me. “I have to leave,” I breathed out, the words barely audible over the music. I needed to get away before I did something completely unforgivable, like reaching out to see if his chest was as solid as it looked. To my surprise, he finally took a step back. He lifted his hand off the bar, granting me just enough space to draw a full breath of fresh air. But the moment the oppressive heat of his body left mine, a strange, disappointing emptiness settled over me. It felt wrong. It felt cold. “You could try to leave,” he said, his voice laced with a dark, confident promise that made my heart stutter. “But something tells me you’re not going to forget me tonight, Venessa.” He held my gaze, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that felt like a brand. “And I sure as hell won't forget you.” Using every ounce of willpower I had left, I forced my legs to move. I turned away from him, my balance unsteady on my heels, and plunged blindly into the crowded lounge. I pushed past groups of talking people, ignored a shout from someone who looked like Mia near the VIP exit, and kept my eyes glued strictly ahead. I didn't look back. Not once. But even without turning around, I could feel the heavy, predatory weight of Khalid’s stare tracking me through the crowd, burning holes into my back all the way to the elevators. By the time I finally escaped the club, hailed a cab, and unlocked the front door to my quiet apartment, my hands were still trembling. I tossed my keys onto the entryway table, kicked off my suffocating heels, and collapsed against the closed door, letting out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for hours. I looked around my living room—at the soft lighting, the neatly arranged books, the utter safety of the life I had built. I told myself that the rooftop was just a fluke. A single, reckless collision with an arrogant superstar who was used to getting whatever he wanted. Tomorrow he’d be back on the ice, surrounded by thousands of adoring fans, and I would be back in my office, completely forgotten. It was over.