Page 121 of Captain's Claim

I lean against our kitchen island, hiding my smirk behind my coffee mug as Blake attempts his one-man show of domestic excellence. Tommy babbles happily against Blake's chest while my stubborn husband tries to whisk pancake batter with his free hand.

"I've got this under control," Blake insists, even as flour dusts his nose and Tommy grabs at the whisk.

Our golden retriever Scout circles Blake's feet, tail wagging with an expectation of food slopping to the floor.

I've warned Blake three times about leaving the bacon too close to the counter's edge, but apparently, years of hockey strategy don't translate to kitchen spatial awareness.

"Babe, maybe I should-"

"Nope." Blake pops the 'p' sound, making Tommy giggle. "I scored the game-winning goal in Game Seven of the playoffs. I can handle Christmas morning breakfast."

The words barely leave his mouth when Tommy lunges for the whisk, sending batter flying across our brand new, and dare I say,pristinekitchen.

Blake's sudden movement stops his rhythmic bouncing, and Tommy's face crumples. The wail that follows would put any hockey arena crowd to shame.

Batter drips from the ceiling as Blake stands in the chaos, looking utterly defeated.

"I led a professional hockey team to the Stanley Cup," he mutters, trying to comfort our crying son. "How is making pancakes what finally breaks me?"

"My big, tough captain," I tease, finally stepping in.

I lift Tommy from Blake's arms, settling him on my hip where he immediately calms down.

"Maybe stick to scoring goals and teaching our son to skate?"

Blake pulls me close, careful not to squish Tommy between us. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Mmhmm." I stretch up on my toes to kiss away a spot of batter from his jaw. "But I love you anyway."

"And I love you too." Blake pecks a kiss to my nose that's so quick it's almost unfair. "Oo! Maybe we do presents instead! Before everyone else gets here?"

"Presents it is," I agree, unable to contain my grin.

We settle on the rug near the Christmas tree, Tommy nestled between us as Blake stocks the fire with another log. Then, he reaches for a large package with my name on it, but I stop him.

"No! Open mine first."

I nod toward a small box wrapped in paper covered with tiny pictures of Ridge the Icehawk's mascot.

Blake tears into the wrapping paper with one hand while keeping Tommy steady with the other. His eyes light up at the simple wooden frame, but then his expression shifts as he recognizes what's inside.

"How did you..."

His voice trails off as he traces the edge of the photograph.

Young Blake stares back from behind the glass, maybe twelve or thirteen, standing next to Eli outside the old rink. Both wear matching Icehawks jerseys, Blake's clearly too big, hanging past his knees.

But it's the smile that gets me every time - pure joy radiating from a kid who might have perhaps just found his place in the world.

"Eli helped me," I admit, watching Blake's face. "He said it was time this picture came home where it belongs."

Blake swallows hard, still staring at the photo.

"This was the day he gave me my first real jersey. Said I'd earned it after six months of cleaning that damn rink every morning."

Tommy reaches for the frame with chubby fingers, and Blake holds it closer so he can see.

"That's daddy," Blake whispers to our son. "And that's grandpa Eli, the man who taught daddy everything about hockey. And love. And family."

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