Page 10 of Captain's Claim

A jazz quartet plays in the corner, their soft notes wrapping around couples already swaying and dancing on the makeshift dance floor overlooking the ice rink below.

The usual sports memorabilia has been draped in silk, transforming our players sanctuary into something almost mythical. Even Logan looks less intimidating with his wolf mask, though the way our massive defenseman towers over everyone still gives him away.

Through my venetian mask, I catch glimpses of familiar faces hidden behind feathers and glitter. There's something about the anonymity of masks that makes everything feel possible, dangerous even.

Like maybe, just maybe, people might take risks they wouldn’t otherwise take.

Connor slouches beside me, flipping a poker chip between his fingers. “Ryder actually tried to toe-drag last practice,” he says, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “Almost fell on his ass.”

“Did not!” Ryder’s voice cuts in from behind, the rookie shoving Connor’s shoulder as he squeezes between us and grabs a flute of champagne. “I nailed it.”

Connor snorts. “You nailed the boards.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Logan chimes in from across the room, lounging on one of the leather couches like he owns the place. “At least the kid’s got ambition. God knows the rest of you don’t.”

Connor nudges my arm and I see his eyes roll from behind his mask. "He's starting to sound like Coach Brody."

I smirk back as the group erupts in a mix of groans and laughter, but even with all the noise, I catch it - the soft creak of the door opening across the room.

My instincts kick in before I even turn, every muscle tensing with a strange, inexplicable pull.

She's here.

I don't know how I know it, but I do.

The door swings open, and everything stops.

Sophia Hart glides in wearing a dress that somehow makes my fingers itch to touch her. Deep emerald silk hugs every curve, catching the light with each step. A delicate gold mask frames those sharp hazel eyes, crystals scattered across it like stars.

She looks untouchable. Like a queen holding court. My queen.

No. Not my anything.

My grip tightens on my whiskey glass. Logan whistles low beside me, and I fight the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

"Damn, new chick in marketing's looking fine tonight," Connor mutters, and something hot and territorial roars to life in my chest.

She moves through the crowd like she owns it, pausing to chat with Dave near the buffet. The slit in her dress reveals a flash of leg, and I catch Coach Brody's new rookie project openly staring.

My jaw ticks. Every guy in this room has their eyes on her.

She doesn't notice, but I do.

And it’s taking every ounce of restraint not to rip that mask off her face, pin her against the nearest wall, and remind everyone exactly who they’re fucking dealing with.

"You gonna talk to her, Cap?" Logan nudges me, grinning behind his basic black mask. "Or just glare holes through anyone who looks her way?"

I drain my whiskey in one go, ignoring the burn.

"What's the deal, Maddox?" Connor presses, leaning on the bar beside me. "You're staring at her like she stole your favorite stick."

"Maybe he’s just admiring the view," Ryder quips, smirking over the rim of his champagne flute. "I mean, shedoesclean up nice."

"Shut up, rookie," I mutter, my grip tightening on my empty glass.

Connor grins like the relentless shit-stirrer he is. "Oh, come on. She's notthatbad, right? Let me guess… She’s still on your shit list for running the show this morning?"

"Word in the locker room says she had Big Mike eating out of her hand," Ryder says unhelpfully.

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