Page 2 of Captain's Claim

Roberts has the puck along the boards. Exactly where I want him. The smug bastard's been running his mouth all night, taking cheap shots when the refs aren't looking.

My eyes narrow, locking onto my target. Every muscle in my body coils tight, ready to spring.

"Five! Four!"

He thinks he's got this game locked down, but he doesn't know Iron Ridge. Doesn't know me. Doesn't understand what it means to fight for something bigger than yourself, to carry the weight of an entire community's dreams on your shoulders.

I'm Blake Maddox. Heart and soul of this damn town. The kid who used to sweep these same boards long after the lights went out, who learned to skate on borrowed blades, who bleeds green and gray.

"Three! Two! One!"

The door clicks open.

The roar… the fucking roar…

It hits me full force as my skates bite into the ice, gripping in as I explode from the box, every muscle burning. The crowd's raucous energy surges through me, pushing me like a fucking electric current as I beeline straight for Roberts.

He sees me coming.

His eyes go wide.

That cocky smirk falters for a split second before he dishes the puck away.

Too late, buddy.

I'm on him in three strides, pinning him hard against the boards. My elbow lands right on his nose, sending his helmet flying off and spinning across the ice. The satisfyingthudof the hit reverberates through my shoulder as the stadium erupts around me.

"Not so tough now, are you?" I growl, close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead.

He shoves back, but I'm already gone, tracking the puck as it slides to my defenseman.

Time to show this punk what Iron Ridge hockey really means.

I circle back, finding open ice near center. The weight of responsibility settles over me as I read the play developing.

Four minutes left. One goal down. This is what I live for.

"Here!" I bark, tapping my stick on the ice. Logan Kane, best defenseman in the entire fucking league spots me and slides the puck right onto my tape like it's drawn by a magnet.

Roberts is on his feet, charging at me again, but he's about to learn – you don't corner a hawk in its own nest.

Years of experience have taught me to see the patterns, to feel the rhythm of the game in my blood.

I look up, and Ryder Scott, our rookie forward, is exactly where I need him to be. The kid's got instincts. If he keeps his head down, he might change our entire season. His scruffy hairpeeks out from under his helmet as he positions himself near the goal, practically vibrating with urgency.

The defenders haven't spotted him. Their mistake.

With a flick of my wrist, I thread the needle. The puck whistles through a maze of sticks and skates, right onto Ryder's stick.

Time slows.

The crowd holds its breath.

Ryder doesn't hesitate.

One touch, top shelf. Right where mama keeps the cookies.

The red light flashes. The Nest explodes.

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