Page 22 of Captain's Claim

The line shuffles forward, and Natalie tugs off one of her gloves, blowing warm air into her palm.

I shrug, shifting my weight as I glance around the festival. “It’s different. I’m used to bigger markets, bigger budgets, bigger teams, a wholelotmore red tape.”

Natalie hums knowingly. “Well, welcome to Iron Ridge. We do things a little differently around here.”

I arch a brow. “Like mandatory winter festivals?”

“Likeembracingwinter festivals.” She winks, then cocks her head. “I heard your mom’s a sports agent. That must’ve been cool growing up.”

I snort. “Cool isn’t the word I’d use. More likeintense.”

Her eyes brighten like she's about to ask more, but before she can, our turn arrives at the counter and she downs the cider in her hand in one giant gulp.

"Wow, impressive," I laugh.

Natalie shrugs it off and grins. "Maggie, this is Sophia. She's new to town."

An older woman, bundled in a thick wool coat, beams at me, her cheeks ruddy from the cold. “Well then, you’re in for a treat. First-timers get thespecialcocoa.”

Before I can ask what that means, she pours thick, velvety hot chocolate into two heavy ceramic mugs, steam rising from the surface like something out of a dream. She tops them with an obscene amount of whipped cream, then dusts them with cocoa powder and shavings of dark chocolate. A drizzle of caramel follows, then, because apparently this town does nothing in moderation, a homemade marshmallow, toasted right there on the spot with a tiny blowtorch.

I blink at the masterpiece in front of me. “Jesus. This is a drink?”

Natalie laughs. “No. This isn't just a drink… This is alife-changingdrink.”

We step away from the booth, cradling our mugs, and I take my first sip.

Holy. Hell.

It’s like drinking pure, molten bliss. Deep, rich cocoa, the kind that lingers on your tongue with just the right balance of sweet and bitter. The caramel adds a decadent warmth, while the marshmallow melts into the drink, making each sip creamier than the last.

I make a sound that would definitely get this festival slapped with an R-rating. “Okay.Okay. This is ridiculous.”

Natalie smirks. “Told you.”

I take another sip, my shoulders loosening. “So, how long have you been with the Icehawks?”

“Three years,” she says, licking a bit of whipped cream from her lip. “Started as an intern, then they hired me full-time after my physical therapy certification.”

“And you like it?”

She hums, taking another sip of her hot chocolate. “It’s a great team. Great people.”

The way she says it… like there's more she wants to say but doesn't.

Before I can press, the sound of cheers carries from a few yards away. We turn, spotting a small crowd gathered near a blazing hot firepit, where a couple of Icehawks players are chatting with fans, signing autographs, and drinking steaming cups of cider.

Ryder Scott, who I've quickly learned is the team’s golden-boy rookie, is perched on the arm of a wooden bench, laughing as he balances a kid’s tiny mittens on his oversized hands. Logan Kane, built like a brick wall in a parka, is standing with his arms crossed, nodding along as a group of older locals talk animatedly about"the good ol’ days"of Iron Ridge hockey.

And right beside them, Coach Brody is listening intently, a cup of cider in one hand, the other buried in the pocket of his coat.

Natalie’s eyes land on him, and for the briefest second, something flickers across her face. I watch as he looks our way and she immediately pretends to be very interested in her hot chocolate again.

My lips curl.Interesting.

"So, youreallylike working here then?"

Her entire face flames. "I- what? No. Oh god, no. He's my boss."

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