Billionaire Captain: Claiming My Rival's Ex

Eleanora POV:

The chime of a push notification sliced through the murmur of the grand ballroom, followed instantly by a dozens-deep wave of synchronized gasps.

I looked down at the glowing screen of my phone. The headline from TMZ Sports was printed in bold, unforgiving letters: NHL ALL-STAR JARED LLOYD ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT TO SOCIALITE AND ARTIST CHRISTY HILL.

Beneath the banner sat an ultra-high-definition photograph taken mere seconds ago on the raised dais at the far end of the room. Jared was leaning down, securing a radiant five-carat diamond ring onto Christy's finger. His sculpted, athletic jawline was soft, his smile radiating an authentic warmth I had spent two whole years begging to see in private. Christy-the daughter my stepfather had dragged into the Hester household, my supposed stepsister, a delicate little porcelain doll-was weeping pretty, pristine tears, flashing the diamond directly toward a swarm of flashbulbs.

Just three hours ago, Jared had texted me: [Stay in the penthouse tonight, Nora. Big media night. Don't distract me.]

Two years. Two years of playing the phantom in his life. Whenever I asked why we couldn't go public, Jared would sigh, cup my face with his calloused hands, and murmur about the ruthless Chicago hockey media.

"The press will tear you apart, Nora. You know how toxic hockey fans can be to a player's girl. Let me hit forty goals this season. Let me win the Stanley Cup first. Then we'll show the world."

I had believed every poison-laced syllable. I had managed his private schedules, analyzed rival teams' defensive gaps for his game preparation, and stayed hidden in the shadows of his VIP suite, all to protect his precious focus.

Now, he was offering the world to my stepsister on a silver platter.

I locked the phone, smoothed the fabric of my tailored emerald gown, and walked toward the head table. Every step felt like treading on shattered glass, but my spine remained rigid. Hester blood didn't bow, even when it was bleeding out.

Before I could reach the dais, a manicured hand clamped down hard on my forearm, dragging me behind a marble pillar.

"What do you think you're doing, Eleanora?" my mother, Clarine Hester, hissed under her breath. Her diamond chandelier earrings swung violently against her powdered neck. "Did you come here to make a scene and embarrass our entire family?"

"You knew," I whispered, the realization setting in with a deadening chill. "You knew he was going to propose to Christy tonight."

Clarine scoffed, adjusting her vintage fur wrap. "Of course I knew. I helped arrange it. Jared Lloyd is the face of the Chicago Blackhawks. Christy's father brings a network of gallery funding and sports apparel connections. They are an asset to one another. What can you offer him? A dead man's empty name?"

The cruelty in her voice was effortless. Ever since my father, Jack Hester, collapsed on the ice rink ten years ago, Clarine had treated his memory like an inconvenient lien on her vanity.

"Father built the Hester Group," I said through teeth clamped so tight they ached. "He built the Lions. That legacy belongs to me."

"It did," Clarine smiled, a razor-thin crescent of venom. "Until you remember the clause in your father's trust. You must be lawfully married by your twenty-fifth birthday to take distribution of the controlling shares and the estate. Otherwise, full executive control transfers permanently to me and your brother."

She leaned in, her perfume choking the air between us. "Your twenty-fifth birthday is in six days, Eleanora. And you have no husband. Which is why I took the liberty of securing one for you. Senator Vance has agreed to take you as his fourth wife. His political sway will finally clear our licensing deals for the stadium."

Senator Vance was sixty-four, a notorious predator with two sealed domestic violence settlements.

"I'd rather burn the estate to the ground," I said, my voice dead and steady.

"You don't have a choice," Clarine snapped. "Sign the marriage contract with Vance on Monday, or leave this city with nothing but the clothes on your back."

She swept away, her silk train whispering across the marble floor.

Before I could breathe, a heavy shadow fell across my path. Jared stood there, holding two glasses of vintage champagne, his tuxedo tailored to athletic perfection. He had slipped away from the press line.

"Nora," he said, his voice dropping low, totally devoid of guilt. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what, Jared? Like you're a liar and a coward?"

He frowned, glancing over his shoulder to ensure no cameras were aimed at our alcove. Even now, his instinct was to hide me. "Be practical for once in your life. Christy fits the brand. Her father has the media in his pocket, and the front office loves her. You're too intense, Nora. You're constantly brooding over your father's old business, constantly fighting with your mother. I needed peace."

He stepped closer, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "It doesn't have to change anything between us. Christy doesn't care what I do on away games. We can keep the penthouse. You can still be mine."

The sheer audacity of it left me breathless. He wasn't ashamed; he was offering me a demotion to permanent, off-the-books mistress.

I didn't flinch. I slapped his hand away with a crack that made a nearby waiter jump.

"Don't flatter yourself, Lloyd," I said, every word clipped and arctic. "You aren't a man. You're an overrated puck-chaser who wouldn't know loyalty if it checked him into the boards."

Jared's face darkened, his jaw hardening into the brutal expression he usually reserved for on-ice enforcers. "Watch your mouth, Eleanora. You walk away from me tonight, and your mother hands you to Vance. Without me, without your father's trust, you are nobody in Chicago. No one in this town will lift a finger to save you."

"I don't need saving," I said. "And I certainly don't need you."

Christy chose that exact moment to emerge from the crowd, clutching a bouquet of white calla lilies. "Jared, darling? The reporters are asking for a quote about our summer wedding date-oh. Nora."

She looked at me, instantly schooling her features into a pathetic, wide-eyed display of innocence. "Nora, please... don't be angry with Jared. If our love hurts you, I'll... I can give the ring back..."

"Keep the ring, Christy," I said, my voice carrying clearly to the gathered socialites eavesdropping nearby. "You've spent your entire life picking up my discarded trash. Why stop now?"

Christy gasped, retreating into Jared's side with a theatrical sob. Jared looked at me with open hatred. "Get out, Nora. Before I have security remove you."

I turned on my heel and walked out of the ballroom, head held high, ignoring the burning stares and low murmurs of Chicago's elite.

The autumn wind whipped violently down Michigan Avenue, rain pelting the pavement in frigid sheets. I climbed into the back of a yellow cab, trembling from adrenaline and sheer, unadulterated fury.

Six days.

I had six days to find a husband, secure my father's trust, and dismantle every single person who thought they could carve up my life.

I pulled out my phone and bypassed the gossip rags, going straight to the league forums. My thumb stopped on a buried, explosive headline on a local sports blog:

CHICAGO LIONS CRISIS ERUPTS: BOTH THE CAPTAIN AND A STAR TEAMMATE ARE PLAGUED BY GAY RUMORS, SPONSORS THREATEN $20M TERMINATION, FRONT OFFICE DEMANDS PROOF OF DOMESTIC STABILITY BEFORE HOME OPENER.

Beneath the article was a grainy photo of a towering, broad-shouldered captain ducking paparazzi, his face obscured by a dark cap. Another photo showed a younger, softer-looking player hiding behind him.

A player desperate to silence the press. A player with immense power who would never, ever want a real woman in his bed.

He was the perfect fit for a business transaction.

I tapped the screen, dialing the private number listed for the team's crisis management agent. "My name is Eleanora Hester," I said into the speaker. "And I have a proposition for your client-don't get me wrong, I'm not here for the high-profile, trouble-magnet captain. I want the other player caught up in the rumors."

Eleanora POV:

The basement of The Iron Gate, an exclusive speakeasy tucked behind an unmarked steel door in the West Loop, smelled of peat smoke, aged leather, and expensive secrets.

The terms conveyed by his broker had been non-negotiable: Total anonymity until an agreement is reached. Masks mandatory. No recording devices. It was paranoid, but understandable for an NHL superstar trying to save a twenty-million-dollar endorsement empire from a career-ending media circus.

A burly guard in a bespoke suit nodded me through a heavy velvet curtain into a private booth at the back.

Sitting in the low amber light was a mountain of a man. Even seated, his physical presence dominated the small room. He wore a tailored charcoal wool coat over a crisp black shirt, his broad shoulders and thick chest unmistakably those of a professional athlete. His face was entirely hidden behind a matte-black Venetian mask, leaving only a pair of piercing, ice-green eyes and a hard, razor-etched jaw visible.

I wore a simple black lace mask, my posture straight as an arrow as I took the leather armchair opposite him.

"Miss Hester," he said. His voice was low, gravelly, and carried a resonant authority that vibrated straight through the table. "You have five minutes to explain why I shouldn't have my security escort you into the rain."

I didn't blink. "You're facing a public relations disaster. Three major family-oriented sponsors have given you an ultimatum before the season opener: settle your personal rumors or lose your contracts. You need a wife who looks respectable, asks zero questions about your private affairs, and gives the league the heteronormative fairy tale they crave."

The green eyes narrowed behind the mask. He leaned back, crossing one long leg over the other, swirling a glass of neat bourbon. "And what does the daughter of Jack Hester need in return?"

"My father's legacy," I said evenly. "A provision in my trust fund requires me to be lawfully married before my twenty-fifth birthday-which is in five days. If I fail, my mother liquidates the estate and hands my father's shares in the Chicago Lions to outside vultures. Marry me, and we solve each other's problems. A strictly contractual marriage. One year. We make the requisite public appearances, satisfy your sponsors, unlock my inheritance, and quietly file for an uncontested dissolution next fall."

A silence stretched between us, thick with tension. He didn't interrupt. He just watched me, those jade eyes tracking the pulse beating at the base of my throat with an intensity that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up.

"One year doesn't work for me," he said finally.

My heart sank. "What do you mean?"

"The Lions are making a run for the Cup this season," he murmured, his voice sliding over the words like steel over ice. "A divorce announcement during the playoffs would cause more media chaos than the rumors I'm trying to kill. The contract remains active until the final game of the Stanley Cup Finals. Win or lose."

I calculated rapidly. That was roughly eight to nine months, depending on the post-season. Entirely manageable.

"Agreed," I said. "Anything else?"

"One more thing," he leaned forward, placing his palms on the table. The sudden proximity brought a wave of cedarwood and cold winter air, an overwhelmingly masculine scent that felt entirely incompatible with a man hiding his sexuality. "No prenup that looks like a corporate merger. The league investigates sham marriages thoroughly. It must be an absolute, legally binding civil union under Cook County law."

"Fine," I said, refusing to back down. "We sign the civil registry tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow is too late," he said, rising to his full height. He had to be at least six-foot-three, towering over me as I scrambled to my feet. "City Hall has an emergency night clerk on retainer for athletes and diplomats. We do it tonight. Right now."

Before I could process the rush, he guided me out through a service exit into the back of an idling black SUV. The drive to the Cook County Municipal Building passed in complete silence. He didn't speak, and neither did I, my mind racing through the sheer madness of what I was about to do.

Inside the dimly lit private registrar's office on the fourth floor, the elderly clerk adjusted his spectacles and looked at our masks with mild annoyance.

"Identification and legal declarations, please," the clerk droned. "And take those foolish things off. I need to verify your faces against your state IDs."

I untied the silk ribbon behind my head, letting the black lace fall away. I slid my driver's license across the mahogany desk.

Beside me, the man reached up. Long, calloused fingers caught the edge of the black Venetian mask and pulled it down.

My breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to tilt on its axis.

Messy, sun-streaked dirty-blonde hair fell over a broad, noble forehead. High, aristocratic cheekbones framed a rugged, impossibly handsome face, punctuated by a small, pale scar just along the edge of his left brow. And those eyes-brilliant, arresting green, watching my shock with absolute, predatory stillness.

It wasn't a panicked second-line defenseman.

It was Beckham Waller.

The captain of the Chicago Lions. The undisputed golden boy of the NHL. The heir to the Waller sports and real estate dynasty, a family whose wealth dwarfed even my father's peak holdings.

"You..." I gasped, stumbling a half-step back, my hand flying to my mouth. "You're... Beckham Waller."

"Last I checked," he said, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smirk.

"You're not facing a sponsor crisis! You're the most marketable athlete in North America!" I reached out to grab my license off the desk, pure panic setting in. "This is a mistake. You don't need a sham marriage!"

Before my fingers could touch the plastic, Beckham's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist. His skin was blazing hot, his grip unyielding.

"I have my own reasons, Nora," he said, stepping so close his chest brushed the silk of my dress. "My father is trying to force a merger marriage with an oil heiress from Dallas. And Andrew... a close friend on the roster... is the one the press is actually hunting. The rumors bled onto me because I covered for him. I need this shield just as much as you do."

"You could have chosen anyone," I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Why me?"

"Because you walked into my bar and offered me a deal," he whispered, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto my eyes. "And unlike the women my father parades in front of me, you don't want my heart, and you don't want my money. You want a weapon. I happen to be the sharpest one in this city."

The clerk cleared his throat loudly. "Are we signing or not? I have a shift ending in ten minutes."

My phone buzzed in my clutch. A text from Clarine: Vance's lawyers have drawn up the pre-marital settlement. Be at the club at noon tomorrow, or you are disowned.

The trap was closing. And right here, holding my wrist in an iron grip, was a sledgehammer.

"Let go of my wrist," I said softly.

Beckham released me, though his eyes never left mine.

I picked up the black ballpoint pen from the desk. With steady hands, I wrote my name across the official registry of marriage: Eleanora Hester.

Beckham didn't hesitate. He took the pen from my fingers, his knuckles brushing mine, and signed with a bold, sweeping flourish: Beckham Waller.

The clerk stamped the document with a heavy, satisfying thud of brass on parchment, slid the certified copies into a gold-embossed folder, and handed it to me.

"Congratulations," the clerk said flatly. "Mr. and Mrs. Waller."

Before I could take a breath, Beckham looped an arm around my waist, pulled me flush against his hard frame, and pressed a firm, searing kiss directly to my forehead.

"Welcome to the team, wifey," he murmured, his breath hot against my hairline. "Now, let's go take your life back."

Eleanora POV:

The gold-embossed marriage certificate felt like a slab of dry ice in my hands as we emerged onto the deserted, rain-slicked steps of City Hall.

Beckham's matte-black G-Wagon sat idling at the curb like an armored beast. He clicked the key fob, the heavy locks disengaging with a sharp mechanical thud, and pulled open the passenger door for me.

"Get in," he said, tossing his leather jacket into the back.

I climbed in, the scent of expensive leather, clean cedar, and ozone enveloping me. "Where are we going?"

"You tell me," Beckham said, sliding behind the wheel and resting his large hands comfortably on the steering rim. "You're the one holding the loaded gun. Whose door are we kicking down first?"

"The Hester Estate," I said without a second's hesitation. "My mother is meeting with the trust executors at ten o'clock tomorrow to initiate the transfer. If she doesn't see this tonight, she'll file emergency motions to freeze the accounts."

Beckham shifted into gear, the twin-turbo engine letting out an aggressive, low-pitched rumble as we surged into the midnight traffic of Lake Shore Drive.

Before we hit the bridge, his phone rang through the vehicle's surround sound. The caller ID flashed: FERNANDO WALLER (CHAIRMAN).

Beckham hit the answer button on the steering wheel without breaking eye contact with the road. "Evening, Chairman."

"Where the hell are you?" a booming, patrician voice filled the cabin, crackling with irritation. "The PR team is in my office right now. The Tribune is running a feature on your personal life on Sunday. I told you, you're announcing your engagement to Caroline Vance at the charity gala or I'm stripping your captaincy!"

"You can call off the PR team, Dad," Beckham said casually, flicking on his turn signal. "And tell Vance's daughter she can find another plus-one."

"What did you just say?"

Beckham picked up his phone, switched the call to video, and tilted the camera directly toward me and the gold-stamped marriage certificate resting on my lap. "I said, I got married an hour ago. Meet Eleanora Waller. Jack Hester's daughter. Your new daughter-in-law."

A dead, suffocating silence dropped over the line. Then, the distinct sound of a crystal tumbler smashing against a hardwood floor.

"You did what?!" Fernando roared.

"We're heading over to greet the in-laws now," Beckham smirked. "Talk to you at morning skate, Dad."

He terminated the call with a single tap of his thumb.

I turned to him, my jaw clenched. "Did you really have to use me to drop an atomic bomb on your father?"

"That wasn't an atomic bomb, Nora," he glanced at me, his green eyes flashing with cold amusement in the dashboard glow. "That was just clearing the board. My father respects leverage. Right now, Jack Hester's surviving heir brings thirty percent of the Lions' legacy shares back under one roof. He'll throw a tantrum tonight, and buy us a mansion tomorrow."

"This is a business contract," I reminded him sharply.

"Exactly," he countered smoothly. "And I'm a very thorough businessman."

Twenty minutes later, the G-Wagon's high beams illuminated the wrought-iron gates of the Hester Estate in Lincoln Park. The grand brick manor, built by my great-grandfather, loomed behind ancient oak trees. It was the only place in the world that felt like home, and for the past two years, Clarine and her parasitic husband Gary Hill had treated it like a personal country club.

Beckham didn't bother using the telecom. He pulled straight up to the front portico, killed the engine, and hopped out, coming around to open my door before I could touch the handle.

"Ready, Mrs. Waller?" he murmured, offering me his arm.

I stared at his bicep, then placed my hand into the crook of his elbow. His muscles were like carved stone underneath his coat. "Let's get this over with."

The front door opened before we reached the bell. Maria, the longtime housekeeper who had looked after me as a child, stood in the foyer, her eyes red-rimmed. When she saw me, then registered the towering figure of the Lions' captain beside me, her hands flew to her apron.

"Miss Nora! What... who..."

"Is my mother awake, Maria?" I asked gently.

"She... she and Mr. Hill are in the drawing room with some papers, Miss Nora, but they said not to disturb-"

I didn't wait. I strode past her, Beckham following half a pace behind, his heavy boots sounding with an ominous, measured cadence on the polished parquet.

In the drawing room, Clarine sat on a velvet settee, swirling a glass of white wine while Gary Hill leaned over an open ledger.

"I told you, Gary, we sell the secondary hospitality suites first," Clarine was saying, not looking up. "Once Nora is safely shipped off to Vance, the court won't audit the trust's initial withdrawals..."

"You might want to put down the pen, Gary," I announced, stepping into the center of the room.

Clarine snapped her head up, fury contorting her botoxed features. "Eleanora! How dare you barge into this house in the middle of the night! I told you, your belongings are being packed for Vance's estate-"

Her voice evaporated completely as Beckham stepped out of the entryway shadows and into the warm light of the chandelier.

Gary dropped his Montblanc pen. It rolled across the mahogany desk and fell to the floor with a muted click.

"Waller?" Gary choked out, his face draining of color. "Beckham Waller?"

Beckham didn't look at him. He walked straight over to the antique bar cart, poured himself two fingers of my father's twenty-year-old Macallan, and turned back to face them, his posture relaxed, lethal. "Don't mind me. Just escorting my wife."

"Wife?!" Clarine shrieked, springing from the sofa. "What kind of cheap theatrics are you playing, Nora?! You found an actor to-"

I walked up to the desk, pulled the legal certificate from my folder, and slammed it down flat against the ledger. The golden Cook County seal caught the light like a flare.

"Read it, Mother," I said, my voice dead, low, and laced with pure venom. "Section 4, Paragraph B of Jack Hester's Family Trust. The moment I enter into a legally certified marriage, all interim conservatorships are immediately dissolved. Full executive authority of the Hester Hospitality Group, the Lions' minority ownership, and the physical deed to this estate revert entirely to me."

Clarine snatched the document, her manicured fingers shaking violently as she scanned the signatures. Her eyes widened in absolute horror. "No... no, this is impossible! You were with Jared yesterday! You can't just marry-"

"It's signed, sealed, and entered into the state registry as of forty-five minutes ago," Beckham stated, taking a slow sip of the whiskey. His voice was silky, yet carried the absolute weight of a death sentence. "Which means, Mrs. Hill, you and your husband are currently trespassing on my wife's private property."

"You... you married a queer!" Clarine snarled, her desperation stripping away every shred of socialite elegance, her face ugly with rage. "You think you're clever, Nora?! You married a man whose own teammates won't share a locker room with him! A man whose sponsors are dropping him by the hour!"

Beckham didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He simply set his glass down on the mantelpiece, stepped up behind me, and placed both hands firmly on my shoulders. His touch was warm, solid, and overwhelmingly steady.

"My personal life aside, Clarine," Beckham said softly, "my family's legal team has eighty-four attorneys on retainer. If you and your husband haven't vacated this house by five o'clock on Sunday, I won't just have the sheriff carry your designer luggage to the curb. I'll have the IRS audit every single expense account Gary has bled from this trust over the last five years."

Gary let out a strangled whimper, grabbing Clarine's arm. "Clarine... come on. Let's go. We can't fight the Wallers. You know what Fernando does to people who fight him."

Clarine glared at me, her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated hatred. "You think you've won, Nora? You're nothing to him. When he's done using you to clean up his filthy reputation, he'll throw you to the wolves just like Jared did!"

"That may be," I said coldly, holding her venomous glare until she was forced to look away. "But tonight, I own this house. And you have seventy-two hours to get your things out of my sight."

She snatched her purse from the sofa, spat a curse at the floor, and dragged a trembling Gary down the hall. The heavy oak front door slammed shut a moment later, vibrating through the silent house.

I stood there, the adrenaline that had carried me through the night suddenly evaporating, leaving behind a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion. I swayed slightly, my knees threatening to buckle.

Before I could fall, Beckham's arm slid around my waist, pulling me securely against his side.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. "Breathe, Nora. You just won round one."

I looked up at him, caught in the arresting intensity of his green eyes. "It's just the beginning. Jared still has all my work, my analysis, my father's team files in his penthouse."

Beckham's jaw set hard, a dangerous glint returning to his gaze. "Then tomorrow, we go take the rest."