Page 1 of Captain's Claim

Chapter One

Blake

Here I am again.

Third goddamn game in a row. Caged like an animal, forced to watch my team skate past without me.

The crowd's chantingpoundsagainst the glass, the vibration flowing beneath me as I grip the edge of the bench seat in the penalty box.

"Maddox! Maddox! Maddox!"

My name echoes around me like a fucking war cry. The stands of Icehawk Stadium pulse with a sea of forest green and charcoal, eighteen thousand strong rising to their feet. Even the stuffy suits in the corporate box press against the glass, their usual composure forgotten in the electric atmosphere.

A sneering smile creeps on my lips.

There's no place like this.

My gaze sweeps across the Hawk's Nest where our die-hards bang their drums with a fury that matches the thunder in myveins. Green and white scarves whip through the air like battle flags.

It's a frenzy. A damn carnival in here.

A flash of movement catches my eye. Section 214, a kid in my jersey pounds on the glass, dark eyes blazing with the same fire that used to burn in mine at that age. Back when I was that scrappy teenager watching from the nosebleeds, dreaming of the day I'd wear this C on my chest.

The penalty box timer ticks down with agonizing slowness.

My team needs their captain. And in exactly one minute and seventeen seconds, they're gonna get him.

That cheap shot cost us, and my team's down by one with five minutes left in the third.

The ref drops the puck. Bodies clash. Sticks crack against each other. My leg bounces with pent-up energy as I watch Denver's top line trying to maintain possession. They're playing keep-away, burning precious seconds off the clock.

"Thirty seconds!" The timekeeper's voice cuts through the thundering chants.

I rise, stretching my legs, rolling my shoulders. A roar threatens to rip the roof right of this fucking place.

"Twenty seconds!"

I clip my helmet back on, and across the ice, I spot Denver's winger – Isaak Roberts. He glides past again, tapping his stick against the glass, tormenting me, intimidating me like he has all fucking game.

My blood boils.

I force a cold smile.Asshole doesn't know what's coming.

I've been in this game long enough to know revenge is best served on the scoreboard. My cheek might be aching, the bruise from his crushing blow that forced me to snap in the moment of pure emotion, but I know what needs to be done.

The crowd's countdown echoes through the stadium.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!"

I flex my fingers inside my gloves, the familiar ache in my knuckles a reminder of why I'm in here. In the penalty box. Again.

The media says I'm slowing down. That I've wasted the Icehawks first round draft pick ten years ago. They're telling the world I've under-delivered, fallen short of expectations and made the brand of my hometown franchise fail before it ever truly got the chance to bloom.

"Seven! Six!"

But I'm not done yet. Not by a long shot. Ten years of blood and sweat have gone into this team, this town, and I've got plenty more to give.

I'm at the door, the referee's arm holding me back as the arena fuckingshakesaround us. The roar of thousands fans makes the glass rattle in its frame, sending vibrations straight through my bones.

---