Page 120 of Captain's Claim

Sophia

TWO YEARS LATER

I wake to the soft whisper of snow against windows and Blake's deep voice trying it's best to whisper.

Stretching beneath our plush duvet, I roll over to find my mountain of a husband sprawled shirtless in the window seat, cradling our six-month-old son against his bare chest.

"And when you're bigger," he whispers, "I'll teach you all about the ice. Just like your grandpa Eli taught me."

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our new mountain top home, Iron Ridge spreads out way down below us, like a Christmas card come to life. The stadium's lights twinkle in the distance, and fresh powder coats everything in pristine white.

Two years ago, when I moved to this tiny town from the big city, I never imagined this view would be mine. That this life would be mine.

A soft gurgling noise drifts from across the room.

Blake's fingers trace circles on Tommy's tiny back as she snuffles in her sleep. The same hands that used to grip a hockey stick now expertly handle bottles and diapers.

Who would've thought the fearsome Captain Maddox would retire at his peak to become a full-time dad while I took over as Creative Director at his beloved Icehawks?

“Plotting to turn him into a hockey player already?” I tease, stepping forward towards the window.

Blake smirks without opening his eyes. “You checking me out, Hart?”

Damn him.

"That's Maddox to you." I cross my arms, pretending to be very unimpressed by my stupidly hot husband. “And for your information, I'm just admiring my retired husband, who swore he’d sleep in for the first time in twenty years, but instead is whispering NHL stats to our baby at six in the morning.”

“Not stats,” Blake corrects, voice still husky. He opens one eye lazily, amusement dancing in those steel-gray depths. “Just telling him how we’re gonna make sure he’s the best damn skater in Iron Ridge before he can walk.”

I snort. “Bold assumption, considering he just spent the last three months rolling like an overturned turtle every time he tries tummy time.”

Blake grins, finally sitting up, his free hand dragging me into his lap. “You doubt my coaching skills?”

“I doubt you’ve ever coached anyone with this much drool,” I say as our son shoves his tiny fist in his mouth.

Blake kisses the top of his messy dark hair, completely unfazed by the string of spit now dangling from his fingers.

"I dunno…" Blake hums. "Have you seen some of the kids at the youth program this season? I've never seen a bigger bunch of droolers."

I swat at his chest and lean in for a kiss. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, beautiful."

Our son scrunches his tiny face in fury, protesting whatever unholy level of PDA he just witnessed. I take him from Blake and hold him above my head, dodging the drool before it lands in my eye.

"And Merry first Christmas to you, my little man."

"Tommy said he wants pancakes," Blake says, standing up to wrap both of us in his big, protective arms.

"Then pancakes it is," I say, cradling Tommy in my arms and venturing out alongside Blake into our wonderfully warm living area.

The room is deliciously warm from our stone fireplace, where stockings hang in perfect symmetry - Mine, Blake's, and a tiny one for Tommy.

Our enormous Christmas tree nearly touches the vaulted ceiling, dripping with crystal ornaments that catch the morning sunrise. Presents spill out from under the tree in a sea of silver and emerald wrapping paper - Blake's idea to match our Icehawks-themed Christmas pajamas.

Tommy's onesie has tiny hockey sticks printed all over it, while Blake and I wear matching flannel sets with "Captain" and "Creative Director" embroidered on the pockets.

In the corner, next to Blake's display of retired jerseys, sits the antique rocking chair Eli gifted us when Tommy was born. It's draped with the hand-knitted blanket my mother made, its pattern incorporating both snowflakes and tiny hockey pucks.

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