Page 115 of Captain's Claim

Blake's lips quirk into that smirk that used to be so infuriating, yet now…

Nah.

It's still annoying as hell.

"This doesn't mean you're gonna go changing shit again, does it? This is still my team."

"Oh really?" I arch an eyebrow, trailing my finger down his bare chest. "That's funny, because I distinctly remember someone begging me not to leave the other night. Multiple times, actually."

His eyes darken. "That's playing dirty, Hart."

"I learned from the best, Captain." I pat his cheek. "Now go win me a game. Unless you're worried about being... distracted?"

Something shifts in his eyes. Like he's just remembered he left the oven on or something. His fingers dig into my waist, holding on a beat too long.

"Wait, so you'll be in the corporate box tonight? Not the seat I got you and the girls in Section 114?"

"Uh, yeah, we're heading up to the box now. Better cocktails up there," I wink.

He nods, but doesn't smile. All of a sudden, his whole body has gone all tense and his eyes are darting from side to side like he's piecing together a play on the ice.

"Hart! Time's up!" Coach Brody bellows. "Get the hell out!"

I stumble backward, my heel catching on a equipment bag. I windmill my arms, trying to catch my balance before I face plant in the middle of the locker room.

I grab the first thing I can reach - which turns out to be a jockstrap dangling from a nearby hook.

Oh. My. God.

My fingers seize around the elastic like my survival depends on it. The second I realize what I’m holding, I shriek and throw it across the room like it’s a live grenade.

"Good luck, boys!" I blurt out, my voice an octave higher than usual.

Logan's laugh echoes across the room. "We don’t need luck, Ms. Hart. But uh… can I have that back? I've been looking for it. It’s game-worn."

GAME-WORN?!

A horrified noise bubbles up my throat. I stare at my hand like it might need immediate sanitization. Either that, or I'm cutting the fucking thing off.

When I finally get to the door, Connor's howling with laughter and Ryder's doubled over against his locker. The last thing I see before the door slams is Coach Brody pinching the bridge of his nose, muttering a prayer.

After a quick race up the countless flights of stairs, I settle into my plush corporate box seat between Natalie and Mia, trying to focus on the incredible spread of sushi, champagne, and chocolate-covered strawberries laid out before us.

But my mind keeps drifting back to Blake's weird reaction about where I'm sitting.

Why does it matter so much where I'm sitting? He'll kick ass no matter which angle I'm watching from.

The stadium vibrates with raw, last-game-of-the-regular-season energy. Every single fan is pounding their feet and screaming as the pre-game lights dim. Green lasers dance across the ice whileRidge the Hawksoars overhead, trailing the team flag.

"Holy shit," Mia whispers as the Icehawks burst onto the ice.

Blake leads them out, captain's 'C' gleaming on his chest. Even from up here, he looks sexy as hell.

We all cheer and whoop and soon, the puck drops.

Blake transforms into a force of nature. He sends New York's center flying into the boards with a bone-crushing check. Minutes later, he threads an impossible pass to Ryder for the first goal.

It's taken them no time at all.

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