The Star Player Is Mine.

Nadia's POV.

I took one last look at my small, pecky boobs as I arranged the chest wrap.

A heavy breath escaped my lips as I made the first round around my chest, then the second, and then the third.

Good.

That was one of the advantages of having small boobs.

You could wrap them in the chest wrap and automatically become a boy.

Why I had my boobs wrapped up?

It was to play hockey, not just any type of hockey.

Playing in the most elite team of the men's ice hockey in the country.

I put on my jersey and took out the bob wig from my bag, placed it on top of my already braided hair.

I exhaled sharply as I warmed up to enter the rink.

"Who are we?" the coach yelled, his eyes on me.

"The Cheetahs," the hockey team groaned in unison.

"I want a good game. Secure the win and make it clean," the coach continued, his eyes on me.

It was my first match with the team.

Who was I kidding? It was my first professional match on a real ice hockey rink.

BAA-DAAAHHH

The trumpet went off and the game began.

My team ran into the ice rink and I followed suit, but the coach grabbed me by the arm, pulling me back.

"I'm sure you know what's at stake?" he asked, and I nodded hesitantly.

I did know what was at stake — it was my sick father's life.

"Good, so give me a reason to keep you on the team. Go, boy. You know what you're gonna do."

Boy. I was no boy.

I was a girl wearing a wig, dressed in an oversized jersey with compressed boobs underneath.

I was a girl trying to save her father's life.

I ran onto the rink and the game began.

I was skating hard down the ice, blades slicing into the surface with each powerful stride.

My breath fogged in the cold air as I closed in on the goal, stuck low, eyes locked on the puck.

A defender cut across my path, brutally brushing my shoulder—but I didn’t lose the puck.

Ouch. That hurt.

Another defender came at me, but I shifted my weight just in time, juking left—then exploding right with a quick crossover that left them spinning behind me.

Now it’s just me and the goalie.

Time slowed.

I faked a left shot. The goalie dropped low, lunging to the left.

But I held on, dragging the puck around with smooth control.

In a split second, I flicked my wrist—quick and clean.

The puck lifted off my blade and rockets to the top shelf, just past the glove, slamming into the back of the net with a satisfying snap of twine.

Goal!

The entire team froze—probably shocked that the new teammate just scored.

They all exchanged glances, at each other, then at me.

But soon, the game resumed.

I scored four more goals, giving my team the lead.

This time, they roared—flinging themselves at me in celebration.

The final whistle blew.

The Cheetahs topped the scoreboard.

"That was brilliant... that was so brilliant!" the commentators exclaimed.

"A brilliant goal by the new Cheetah teammate—Noah!"

My name rang through the rink as the audience erupted—cheering, clapping, singing praises.

“Good job, good job,” the coach beamed as we gathered, leaving the ice and heading into the locker room.

"Wonderful job, guys, wonderful job." They all marched into the dressing room, sweaty and chatty.

"Noah, I'm impressed." The coach's voice cut through the chatter. "It's great to see that you're living up to your father's legacy." He continued, and the whole hockey team paused to listen.

"Your father and I were close friends. He was once our top scorer. We played together, and now, here you are, topping the charts too." He grinned from ear to ear, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

Close friends? I doubted that.

If Dad was such a good friend of his, why didn't he help without giving a condition?

Why didn't he help Dad with his cancer treatment without asking for something in exchange?

Not just any condition. He wanted my father's son to play for his elite team in return.

Only problem? My father didn't have a son. So here I was, dressed like a dude, skating among men.

With a heavy tap on my shoulder, he walked out of the dressing room, leaving me with chaos erupting from the very muscular dudes who were already stripping down.

One guy drew down his pants and bam... his pale ass came into view. I bit on my lips to stop myself from gasping as I glared at the roundness of his dangling testicles.

Oh boy!

"Hey, Noah, glad you joined the team," another, who was totally naked, smirked, and I swallowed hard, embarrassed on his behalf.

"Hey, new dude, why aren't you freshening up? Feeling shy?" Another, leaning on the wall with a towel barely tied around his waist, asked, and the whole room guffawed.

What made them think it was normal to hold a full conversation with their junk hanging out?

I remained mute, only nodding stiffly, sitting on the bench as I tried hard not to fix my eyes on someone else's balls.

Soon, they got dressed and left, leaving the dressing room quiet and safe for me to change.

Finally.

I was literally dying inside the three layers of jersey I wore. My boobs were screaming to be freed.

As soon as I noticed absolute quietness, and was certain no one was around, I hurried and locked the door.

The wig went off first, then my braids. Then the three layers of jersey tops. Then my hand ran to my chest wrap, trying to free my pecky little suffocating babies.

But just when I was halfway through the unwrapping, I heard a voice... someone was still in here.

He cleared his throat with mockery at first, until he stuttered in utter shock. "You... you're... a girl?"

I turned slowly, my chest tightening, my hands falling weakly to my sides as I faced him.

And there he was, right in front of me, his widened eyes dancing on my body.

Oh no!