My Celebrity crush became my husband

📢 Author's Note

Hi, everyone! ❤️

Thank you so much for reading and supporting this story. Your comments, patience, and encouragement have meant more to me than you know.

I've decided to revamp this novel from the beginning. As I've grown as a writer, I realized this story deserves a stronger foundation, deeper character development, better pacing, and a more emotional slow-burn romance.

Starting today, I'll be replacing the early chapters with the revised version. The main storyline, characters, and ending will remain the same, but many scenes, conversations, and plot developments have been expanded or rewritten to give the story the depth it deserves.

If you've already read the original version, I highly recommend starting again from Chapter 1, as there are important changes that will affect later events.

Thank you for sticking with me on this journey. I truly hope you'll fall in love with this new version even more than the first.

See you in Chapter 1! ❤️

☺️❤️✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦❤️☺️☺️

The Night I Met My Husband

~Nadia's POV~

"Table five needs the double burger, and six and seven are waiting on their loaded fries! Move it!"

The kitchen was chaos and I was flying through it, two trays balanced on my left arm and a third hooked in my right hand.

I was getting good at this. Too good, probably.

"Nadia!"

I flinched, almost slipping.

"Coming!" I took a fast step toward the swinging doors, ready to defeat the lunch rush.

Then my shoes found spilled oil and the world wobbled.

For half a second, I was airborne. Almost graceful. Then gravity remembered I existed and I went down hard, followed by a symphony of breaking plates.

I curled into a ball on the floor, groaning. At least nothing landed in my hair. That was something.

The kitchen door swung open.

Mrs. Gable.

Her eyes swept the mess, and her face twisted. "What is this disgusting mess?" She sighed, long and dramatic. "Nadia. Of course. You are the laziest girl I have ever hired. I genuinely do not understand how you still have a job here."

Before I could offer a cheerful apology, she snatched the towel from my shoulder and threw it at my face.

"Stand up," she snapped. "And remake those orders. Now."

I pushed myself up, wincing as my kneecap protested.

"Mrs. Gable, maybe one of the other waiters could take those tables while I clean...."

"You messed it up." She crossed her arms. "You fix it."

---

By the time midnight rolled around, the kitchen was finally quiet.

I was the last one there, mopping the floors and wiping down counters until they gleamed.

Of course.

The cool night air hit my face as I stepped outside, and I let out a long breath. Every muscle ached. I reached down to touch my knee and winced.

A fresh cut through my jeans.

I'd tell my dad I tripped. Same story as always.

I looked toward the hospital, just observable at the end of the street. I wanted to drop by. Just to sit beside his bed for a few minutes, hold his hand, tell him something ridiculous about Mrs. Gable to make him smile.

Then I checked my phone. Half past midnight.

Visiting hours ended at nine.

Tomorrow. I'd have all the time in the world tomorrow.

My phone buzzed.

Anne.

"How's the shift going?" She was far too energetic for midnight.

"I'm done. Walking home." I leaned my head back, a tired smile tugging at my mouth. "My couch is calling my name. I'm going to melt into it and watch the game. I've been waiting all week."

The Eagles were playing tonight. Raxon Boyd's team.

I'd been following him since his rookie season, back when he was just a kid with a wicked slap shot and something to prove.

I'd watched every interview, studied every play, argued with strangers online about his stats.

My bedroom wall was practically a museum exhibit.

Sad? Maybe.

But when your life was bills and hospital visits and a stepfamily that treated you like furniture, you held onto whatever made you feel something.

"Really?" Anne's voice dropped, and I could hear the grin spreading across her face. "What if I could bring those hockey players face-to-face with you?"

I stopped walking. "What do you mean?"

"There's this exclusive party happening tomorrow night. The kind where stupidly rich people drink champagne and talk about boring things."

I laughed, shaking my head as I started moving again.

"Anne, we would never get invited to something like that."

"And that," she said, "is exactly why I forged IDs for both of us."

My jaw dropped. "Are you insane? If we get caught..."

"Oh, relax. Nobody's going to find out." She waved off my panic like a fly. "Besides, tomorrow is your day off. It's fate."

I should have said no.

I should have hung up, gone home, and been reasonable.

But I was tired of being sensible. I was tired of a lot of things.

"...Fine. But if I end up in jail, I'm telling them it was your idea."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

---

The house was dark when I got home, except for the TV blasting at full volume. My stepmother Grace was slouched on the couch in her usual spot.

She didn't look up when I walked in.

I didn't say anything. I just slipped past her, straight to my bedroom.

A quick shower.

The fastest bath known to man.

Then I flew back into the living room with damp hair and a towel around my neck, dropping onto the floor in front of the TV.

One minute until puck drop.

And there he was.

Raxon Boyd.

The camera caught him during warmups, skating lazy circles around the net. Messy brown hair. Broad shoulders.

That sharp jaw.

I'd seen his face a thousand times...on posters, on magazine covers, on my phone screen at two in the morning when I couldn't sleep...but it still hit me the same way every time.

A smile crept onto my face before I could stop it.

The game was brutal.

The Eagles were down by one going into the third period, and the opposing defense was reading their plays like an open book.

I chewed my lip, muttering at the screen.

"They're overloading the left side. Every time. Look..." I gestured uselessly at the TV as if the coach could hear me. "Raxon needs to switch to the weak side off the faceoff. The defenseman's biting on the fake every single time."

Final minute.

The puck dropped.

Raxon won the faceoff, cut right, and the defenseman bit exactly the way I'd predicted. He faked left...the same move he'd used in the '22 semifinals....and the lane opened like a door.

Goal.

The horn blared.

The crowd erupted. I

shot to my feet, letting myself celebrate, just for a moment, before remembering where I was.

I practically floated to my bedroom, smiling at the posters on my wall. Raxon mid-slapshot. Raxon holding the championship trophy.

Raxon with that infuriating, perfect smirk.

"Goodnight, future husband," I whispered.

Then I collapsed onto my bed and let exhaustion swallow me whole.

---

The next afternoon, Anne spread her contraband across my kitchen table.

Two fake IDs. Two rented dresses. One truly terrible plan.

"Okay, this is great," I said, staring at my own face next to a name that wasn't mine. "But there's one small problem. I don't exactly have 'lavish gala' money."

"Please." Anne rolled her eyes. "I'm always ten steps ahead of you. Dresses are handled. Just show up at my place by seven."

The day blurred past.

Before I knew it, I was standing in front of Anne's mirror, staring at a version of myself I barely recognized.

The dress was deep green, simple but elegant, hugging my frame in ways my bakery uniform never did. Anne had worked some kind of witchcraft on my hair, and my makeup was subtle but transformative.

I looked like someone who belonged in rooms like this.

"We're going to get arrested," I said.

"We're going to have the best night of our lives," Anne corrected.

"Same thing, basically."

---

The venue was obscene.

Paparazzi stood at the entrance, taking pictures with bright flashes. Black town cars pulled up to the red carpet, letting out unbelievably beautiful people in fancy dresses. Jewels shone on every arm and neck.

Anne squeezed my arm. "Oh god. It's actually happening."

I held my breath as the bouncer examined our IDs.

One second. Two. Three.

He unclipped the rope. "Enjoy your evening, ladies."

I didn't breathe until we were ten steps inside.

The ballroom was breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling. Champagne towers glowed under the lights.

The air smelled like costly perfume and fresh flowers, and somewhere a string quartet was playing something gentle and graceful that I could not identify.

Everyone moved with that special kind of easy grace that came from never having to worry about paying rent.

It was everything my actual life wasn't.

And the people.

Every celebrity I'd ever scrolled past on social media was here, breathing the same air as me, laughing like they hadn't just made my entire year by existing in my side-eye.

My face hurt from smiling. I probably looked insane. I didn't care.

"To crashing the gates of high society," I whispered, clinking my champagne flute against Anne's.

She grinned. "To being criminally underdressed and not giving a damn."

We sipped, giggling like children who'd stolen from the cookie jar.

Then Anne nudged my arm, gesturing toward the back. "Bathroom. Don't get into trouble while I'm gone."

"No promises."

She slipped into the crowd, and I leaned against a pillar, sipping my champagne and soaking in the nonsense of the night.

The music.

The laughter. The glittering impossibility of it all.

And then my eyes hit a wall.

It was him.

Raxon.

He was standing across the room in a perfectly tailored dark suit, one hand in his pocket, looking effortlessly handsome in a way that made my chest ache.

He was talking to someone...I couldn't tell who; I couldn't see anyone else...and then, as if he felt my gaze, he turned.

His eyes met mine.

The world didn't slow down. It stopped entirely.

And then he started walking toward me.

My heart beat against my chest. Every step he took shrank the distance between my daydreams and reality, until he was standing right there, close enough to touch.

Up close, I could see his eyes were unfocused. His steps had that slight sway.

Drunk. Definitely drunk.

I did not care.

He looked down at me, and his lips curved into this lazy, devastating smile.

"Hey, beautiful."

He called me beautiful.

'Me.'

The man whose posters covered my bedroom wall. The man I'd watched score a game-winning goal not twenty-four hours ago. He was standing in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne, and he had just called me beautiful.

I stared up at him, breathless, my brain completely short-circuiting.

"Okay," I choked out, a laugh escaping my lips. "Someone needs to pinch me right now, because there's absolutely no way this is real life."

His smile widened, and for one perfect moment, everything was exactly the way I'd dreamed it.

I had no idea that in less than five minutes, it would all fall apart.