Page 111 of Captain's Claim

A polite applause.

Fuck, this is awkward.

"Listen, I don't do press. I don't do media. At least, I didn't. But today? I'm making an exception because I have some things I want to say."

I clear my throat, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

"Not gonna lie—this is the part where I usually let my stick do the talking. Or, you know, throw a punch."

A few chuckles ripple through the room.

Ihatethis. Hate having the eyes of the media dissecting every move I make.

But then I pictureher.

Sophia.

Her eyes red, a packed suitcase by the door. The way she almost walked away from everything because of this bullshit.

I exhale hard.

And then, I start to tell my story.

"Growing up in Iron Ridge, my life started like any other story. Happy family. Mom, Dad, little house up on Maple Street. Dad took me skating before I could walk. Put a stick in my hands soon as I could stand."

The crowd murmurs appreciatively. A few nods from the old-timers who remember those days.

"This town... it's special. The way hockey runs through its veins. The way the whole place shuts down for home games. The way everyone shows up with casseroles when someone's hurting." I gesture around the tavern, knowing they get where I'm coming from. "Hell, look at this place. Ridgeview Tavern is covered. Every inch drenched in memories. Stories. Dreams."

Connor raises his beer and hollas. A few others follow suit.

"I learned to love the game here. Spent hours on that frozen pond by the stadium. Must've shot a thousand pucks at my dad's garage door." I crack a smile. "Sorry about those dents, Mrs. Peterson."

Laughter ripples through the room. Mrs. Peterson, still living in that house after all these years, waves from her corner booth.

My smile fades. "But then..."

The room goes quiet. Even the clink of glasses stops.

"Things changed. The game changed."

My knuckles go white around the mic. I hear Sophia's sharp intake of breath from across the room.

Stay strong, sweetheart. I'm getting there.

"I was ten years old. The day after my birthday." The words already taste bitter on my tongue. "And suddenly, that happy story? That perfect little American hockey family? It all fell apart."

The reporters' pens scratch frantically against their notepads. This is what they've been waiting for. The original story of Blake Maddox. The dark past I've kept buried all these years.

But for once, I don't care what they write.

Because this isn't about me anymore.

"The next few years? I was pissed. At him. At my mom. At the world. I started fights, broke shit, lost every good thing I had." I shake my head, exhaling sharply. "But if it wasn't for one man, Eli Thompson, ladies and gentlemen, there would be no me."

The applause hits like a wave.

Eli's looking smug as hell, but he's earned it. I mean it.

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