Chapter 5: WILLIAM’S POV

The arena's neon floodlights cut through the haze of ice mist, bathing the rink in a harsh, electric glare. The thunderous roar of eighteen thousand screaming fans reverberated through the steel girders overhead, creating a deafening wall of sound that usually sent adrenaline rushing through my veins.

Tonight, I barely heard any of it.

I sat on the bench, my helmet hanging loosely from one gloved hand, my chest heaving as sweat trickled down the back of my neck and soaked through my heavy jersey. Around me, my teammates were shouting and pounding each other's shoulder pads, celebrating a hard-fought period.

As the team captain, I was supposed to be barking orders, reviewing plays, and keeping everyone focused.

Instead, my eyes kept drifting toward the tunnel entrance, where one of the equipment trainers was holding my personal phone.

Did she text back?

"DeLuca! Great backcheck in the final minute, Cap!" our head coach barked, stepping up to the bench with a white dry-erase board clutched in his hand. "Keep that pressure on their top line in the third. We own the neutral zone."

"Got it, Coach," I replied smoothly, my voice cold and composed.

It was the voice everyone expected from William DeLuca. Unshakeable. Formidable. Ruthless on the ice and completely detached off it. To my teammates, the media, and the millions of fans who bought my jersey, I was a machine—a multimillion-dollar hockey superstar who cared about winning and absolutely nothing else.

They thought I was made of ice. They had no idea that every spare second I had was spent thinking about a girl named Luna.

The moment the third period ended and we secured the win, I hurried past the post-game high-fives in the hallway, stripped off my gloves, and grabbed my phone from my locker stall.

My screen was blank. No new notifications.

A familiar prickle of irritation tightened in my chest. I stared at the dark screen, my jaw clenching.

She's late. She's usually online by now.

"William, media room in five," the team's PR director called, sticking his head into the locker room. "The press is waiting. They want to talk about the winning streak."

"Give me two minutes," I snapped without looking up.

I opened our private chat thread. My thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment before I typed out a quick message.

«W_DeLuca: Finished the game. We won. Where are you, baby?»

I placed the phone face-up on the wooden bench beside my locker and stood to pull on my tailored dark suit jacket. After adjusting my tie in the mirror, I studied my reflection, my expression completely stone-cold.

When I walked into the press conference room, cameras flashed in a blinding flurry. Microphones were shoved toward the podium as reporters competed to shout their questions first.

"William! Another three-point night for you! How does it feel leading the league in scoring?"

"William, rumors are circulating about your contract extension next season. Is your focus staying here?"

I stood behind the podium, tall and imposing, giving them exactly the answers they wanted—brief, professional, and devoid of any real emotion.

"We took it one shift at a time," I said, my voice deep and measured. "The focus is always on the next game. Contract talks stay between my agent and management."

Then a female reporter from a national sports outlet raised her microphone, a sly smile playing on her lips.

"William, you've been notoriously private about your personal life for years. But your teammates mention you've been glued to your phone during off-hours lately. Is there a special woman in your life right now? Anyone holding the captain's attention off the ice?"

The room fell silent. Every reporter leaned forward, sensing a rare scoop. In an industry filled with athletes who spent their nights at clubs chasing superficial women, I had a reputation for being untouchable. I didn't do groupies, high-profile celebrity dates, or anything that might distract me from my game.

I looked directly into the camera lens, my icy blue eyes narrowing slightly.

"My personal life is private," I said coldly, shutting down any further speculation before it could begin. "Next question."

The press conference wrapped up five minutes later. I didn't wait for the team bus. Instead, I grabbed my garment bag and headed straight out through the private side exit to my SUV, throwing my gear into the back.

The moment I sank into the driver's seat, I reached for my phone.

A new notification was glowing on the screen.

«Luna: Congratulations on the win, bossy! I saw the highlights. You looked terrifying out there on the ice... but I guess you look terrifying most days anyway.»

«Luna: Sorry I was late. I was caught up finishing an art project. Don't be mad at me?»

The cold weight that usually sat in my chest disappeared instantly.

A slow, rare smile spread across my face—a genuine, warm expression that no reporter, teammate, or fan had ever seen.

I leaned back against the leather headrest, sliding my thumb over her contact name.

They all thought I was an untouchable superstar who had everything—fame, fortune, and success. But none of it mattered compared to this. None of those thousands of people cheering my name actually knew me. They wanted a piece of the superstar.

Luna was the only person who treated me like a man. She didn't want my money. She didn't care about my fame. She made fun of me, pushed back whenever I was arrogant, and listened when I was exhausted.

She was the only real thing in my world.

My fingers flew across the screen, my possessive streak flaring bright and hot.

«W_DeLuca: I'm not mad, honey. But you kept me waiting.»

«W_DeLuca: I'm driving back to my apartment now. Stay on the phone with me until I get home. I need to hear your voice.»