Page 105 of Captain's Claim

Of course she walked out. She's too damn smart to let them reduce her to some puck bunny.

But the thought of her alone somewhere, hurting...

I'm already moving, brushing past Natalie toward the parking lot.

"Blake!" Natalie calls after me. "When you find her-"

"I'll fix this," I promise, not breaking stride.

Fifteen minutes later, reaching her apartment in record time, I pound my fist against the door, my pulse slamming harder than my knuckles against the wood.

"Sophia, open the damn door."

Nothing.

Fuck this. I'm not waiting.

Being patient when the woman I love is hurting?

Fuck that.

I take two steps back, plant my foot right next to the handle, and kick with everything I've got. The door splinters inward with a satisfyingcrashand a wave of lemon and goddamn citrus smacks me in the face.

Sophia leaps off the sofa, her hand flying to her chest. "DID YOU JUST BREAK MY FUCKING DOOR?!"

I storm inside, my chest heaving with each breath. "I'd break down the whole damn world to show you how amazing you are."

The words die in my throat when I see her face. Tears streak down her cheeks, her eyes red and swollen.

And there, by the window, sits a packed suitcase.

"Sophia, what the hell is going on? Natalie said-"

"Don't, Blake." Her voice shakes, her hands trembling as she wipes at her face. "I can't—I just can't do this right now."

I stare at her, at the way she folds her arms around herself like she’s trying to hold herself together, like if she lets go, she’ll shatter.

"You left the office," I say, taking another step closer. "You walked out of that boardroom, and now—now you’re here, packing? What the fuck happened?"

Her throat bobs as she swallows hard. "I quit."

"Youquit?"

She nods, her hands dropping to her sides.

"I walked in there expecting a strategy meeting. You know, the normal stuff. Maybe even a fight about the PR issues, about the media storm and how that's starting to get at me." Her voice turns sharp, her hazel eyes flashing. "But no. They hadflowerswaiting for me, Blake. Flowers. And wine. Like I just won some fucking award for being your girlfriend!"

I bristle.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," she exhales, frustration thick in her voice, "the board doesn’t just want me as the face of the Icehawks. They want me as the face of theentire fucking league."

My head jerks back. "What?"

"Yeah," she lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. "The NHL’s golden couple. Sophia Hart, the pretty girlfriend, smiling on billboards while they parade me around as if I have nothing else to offer except a fucking Chanel sponsorship."

She glares at me. "I don't even like Chanel! It smells like cat urine."

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