Claimed By The Hockey Star

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

My eyes fluttered open the very next morning to the soft, warm glow of my small bedside lamp. The bitter Chicago winter chill had seeped through the thin glass of the windows overnight, making my entire bedroom feel like a freezing icebox. I shivered under my thick blankets and reached out a hand toward my phone on the nightstand, still half-asleep. I nearly dropped the phone right onto the floor when my eyes focused on the glowing screen and saw a new notification waiting for me.

Khalid: Good morning, little liar. Woke up thinking about those fiery eyes of yours. I can’t wait to see you in the stands tonight. You’ll look incredible in red. I’m sending a driver to pick you up at 6. Don’t fight me on this one. I need my good luck charm there.

I stared at the text message for a long time, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of my lips despite my best efforts to stay annoyed. It was so incredibly cheesy. It was totally over-the-top. It was just pure, classic Khalid. He was already trying to dictate my entire schedule. I shook my head to clear the sleep from my brain and typed back a response quickly before I could overthink the situation and change my mind.

Venessa: I never agreed to wear red. And I am perfectly capable of getting myself to the arena.

I hit send, but his reply came back almost instantly, as if he were just sitting by his phone waiting to hear from me.

Khalid: You will wear red, Venessa. And the driver is absolutely non-negotiable. See you soon, baby.

I tossed the phone aside onto the mattress with a loud groan, burying my face back into my pillows. My stomach was doing those annoying, nervous little flips again. This was only Day One of our official ninety-day agreement, and the man was already acting like he owned my evenings and my wardrobe. Still, despite all my internal complaining, I found myself standing in front of my bedroom closet later that afternoon. I searched through the hangers until I pulled out the only red piece of clothing I owned—a fitted crimson sweater made of soft knit fabric that hugged my curves just enough to feel a little bit dangerous.

By exactly six o'clock in the evening, a sleek black SUV with dark tinted windows pulled up right in front of my apartment building. The driver stepped out, holding the door open for me. He was incredibly polite and professional, but he completely refused to answer any of my curious questions about Khalid or where we were going. The atmosphere around the massive stadium was absolutely electric when we finally pulled up to the curb. Thousands of excited fans dressed in thick blue and white Arctic Wolves jerseys were pouring through the main gates. The frozen winter air was buzzing with wild energy, loud music, and the heavy smell of grilled hot dogs and warm beer.

I clutched the premium ticket the driver had handed me and made my way through the crowded hallways of the stadium. Following the numbers on the signs, I walked down the concrete steps toward my seat. When I finally found it, my jaw nearly dropped. I was in the very front row, right against the thick protective glass, at center ice. Of course he put me here. My friend Mia had literally screamed into the phone when I texted her about the tickets earlier, but she was stuck working a double shift at her job, so I had to sit completely alone. My heart was p ounding like a drum against my ribs as the players skated out onto the ice to begin their pre-game warm-ups.

The exact moment the entire team burst through the tunnel for the national anthem, my eyes found him instantly. Khalid Al-Mansour was wearing number 17, with the captain's "C" stitched proudly onto his jersey. He looked even more giant and intimidating in his full hockey gear, his shoulders looking impossibly broad and powerful under the thick padding. He moved across the frozen surface with a kind of lethal, effortless grace, his skates cutting deep lines into the ice. During the warm-ups, he skated in large circles, scanning the crowd of faces in the stands like a hungry predator looking for its prey. The moment his dark eyes locked onto mine, his entire face instantly lit up. The serious, brooding version of "The Beast" completely disappeared. A wide, beautiful, and genuine smile broke across his handsome face, clearly visible even through the plastic cage of his hockey helmet. He skated right up to the boards, tapped his heavy stick twice against the glass directly in front of my face, and pointed his gloved hand straight at me before turning around and skating off into the distance.

My cheeks burned a deep shade of crimson as several fans sitting in the rows around me turned their heads to openly stare and whisper among themselves.

The actual game was incredibly brutal, fast-paced, and violent. It was unlike anything I had ever seen up close. Heavy athletic bodies crashed into the hard boards right in front of me with deafening thuds that made the glass rattle. Khalid dominated the ice like a man completely possessed by a demon. Every single time his line shifted onto the ice, the entire energy of the stadium changed. He checked his opponents hard, sending them flying, won every single puck battle, and set up plays for his teammates with perfect precision. In the third period, with the score tied up at 2-2 and the pressure mounting, he took total control of the game. He stole the puck away from a rival player in the middle of the ice, powered his way through two big defenders like they were made of cardboard, and fired a wicked, lightning-fast slap shot from the blue line.

The red lamp behind the net lit up brightly. The entire crowd of thousands of people erupted into a deafening roar.

The Beast had done it again. He had scored the winning goal with less than two minutes left on the clock. All his teammates swarmed him on the ice, jumping on his back in a huge celebration, but even as they piled on top of him, Khalid looked straight toward my seat. He pointed at me again—this time using the tip of his hockey stick, clearly claiming the victory goal just for me.

The final buzzer sounded, and the scoreboard read: Arctic Wolves 3, Chicago’s rivals 2.

After the game ended, I waited patiently in the quiet, carpeted family-and-friends lounge area, just as one of the stadium staff members had quietly instructed me to do. My nerves were completely on edge, and I couldn't stop fidgeting with the edge of my red sweater. The media circus was everywhere outside the closed doors. I could hear the faint sound of cameras flashing rapidly and reporters calling out Khalid’s name, desperate to get a comment on his incredible, game-winning performance.

About twenty minutes later, a heavy side door clicked open. Khalid walked into the room, looking freshly showered with his dark hair still damp from the water. He had changed into a sharp, tailored black suit that strained tightly across his massive shoulders and thick chest. He scanned the quiet room, spotted me sitting on the couch, and that exact same devastating smile returned to his lips.

Before I could even open my mouth to say a single word, he crossed the open space in three long, heavy strides and pulled me right into a quick, tight hug.

“You actually came,” he murmured deeply against my hair, his voice rough and warm.

“You were absolutely incredible out there,” I whispered back into his chest, surprised by how genuine and honest the words felt coming out of my mouth. “That last goal you scored… the entire arena completely lost their minds.”

He pulled back his upper body just enough to look down into my eyes, his dark gaze looking incredibly soft and warm in the dim lighting of the room. “I always play a hell of a lot better when I know you are sitting in the stands watching me.”

Suddenly, the loud sound of approaching voices, footsteps, and the clinking of heavy camera equipment in the hallway made his entire body go tense. He looked toward the door and frowned. “The press is heading this way. Come on, let's go.”

He grabbed my small hand firmly in his large palm and sneaked us out through a dark back hallway used only by the arena staff. He moved with the total confidence of someone who knew every single inch of the massive building. We quickly slipped out of a side exit and into another waiting black SUV that was hidden in the shadows. Instead of heading toward one of those fancy, incredibly expensive downtown restaurants or toward his luxury penthouse apartment, he leaned forward and gave the driver an address that I didn't recognize at all.

“Where exactly are we going, Khalid?” I asked, turning my head to look at him as the car pulled away.

“You’ll see when we get there,” he said with a small wink.

Ten minutes later, the big car pulled up to a brightly lit street food truck parked on a much quieter, older corner of the city. The colorful neon sign on top of the truck read Benson’s Jerk & Tacos in bright, painted letters. A small group of local neighborhood people were already lined up on the sidewalk, laughing, shivering in the cold, and chatting happily with each other.

I stared out the window in total disbelief as Khalid, still wearing his incredibly expensive designer suit, stepped out of the luxury car and calmly joined the back of the food line like it was the most normal thing in the entire world.

“You actually eat street food?” I asked him, stepping up beside him in the freezing air, unable to hide the absolute shock in my voice. “A giant sports superstar like you?”

He chuckled softly, a low, warm sound that vibrated in the cold night air. He stepped up to the window and ordered a massive plate of spicy jerk chicken tacos and sweet fried plantains for both of us. “This happens to be one of my absolute favorite spots in the entire city of Chicago, Venessa. I have been coming to this specific truck since my very first year playing as a rookie. There are no annoying cameras here. There are no fake smiles or people wanting things from me. It is just good food and real, honest people. The fame and the spotlight get incredibly exhausting after a while. Sometimes I just want to be a normal guy for twenty minutes.”

We found a small, metal standing table on the sidewalk nearby. I watched him devour his food with zero shame or hesitation, getting a little bit of sauce on his fingers, looking more relaxed and happy than I had ever seen him look before.

“I am starting to realize I have a whole lot left to learn about you,” I admitted softly between bites of my taco, surprised at how absolutely delicious and comforting the warm food tasted.

Khalid’s dark eyes softened completely as he looked down at me, the harsh city lights reflecting in his gaze. “You have exactly ninety days to learn every single thing about me, little liar. And I fully plan on teaching you every single detail.”

The long ride back to my apartment building was quiet, but it felt incredibly comfortable and safe. The tension from earlier in the day had completely melted away into the night. When we finally pulled up to the curb of my building, he insisted on stepping out of the car to walk me all the way to my front door. The freezing winter wind whipped around our bodies, but standing next to his giant frame felt like being protected by a massive shield.

He didn't try to force a deep kiss onto my lips this time, respecting the boundaries I had set in the car. Instead, he reached out and gently cupped both sides of my face with his large, warm hands. He leaned his tall body down slowly and pressed a soft, lingering, and incredibly sweet kiss right against my forehead.

“Good night, Venessa,” he whispered roughly against my skin, his warm breath fanning across my forehead. “Thank you for coming to watch me play tonight. It meant a lot to me.”

I stood frozen on the steps and watched him walk back to his car, his long strides easy and confident. I could feel my heart doing strange, completely unfamiliar things inside my chest. Once I was finally safely inside my warm apartment, I leaned my back against the closed front door, a small, uncontrollable smile spreading across my face in the dark room.

This was only Day One of ninety, and I was already in serious trouble. I went to bed a little while later still smiling into my pillows, the lingering taste of spicy street tacos and the sweet memory of his forehead kiss staying with me through the night like a beautiful promise.