Page 23 of Captain's Claim

"Mmm." I lift my brows, playing innocent. "You sure?"

Her eyes dart around like she's searching for an escape route. And when the speaker sparks to life, announcing the start of the hockey game, she's found it.

"Ah! Come on, Blake's team is about to play!"

We drift toward the outdoor practice rink at the back of the festival, the noise of the stalls and conversations surrounding the firepits fading into the background.

Strings of white lights glow over the ice rink, where a team of kids in Icehawks jerseys dart across the rink, sticks clattering as they warm up opposite another team in red jerseys.

Laughter rings out, the kids breath misting in the frigid air as they look like they're having the time of their life.

But I don’t see them.

I seehim.

The last time I saw Blake, he was wet, half-naked, and furious.

Now?

He's on one knee, adjusting a boy’s helmet with careful hands. He gives him a firm clap on the shoulder, saying something that must be encouraging, because the kid grins and skates off like he just got handed the Stanley Cup.

I swallow, shifting my weight.

This isn’t the arrogant, grumpy team captain I’ve spent the past week arguing with.

The game starts and Natalie cheers the Icehawks Youth Team from beside me. It's only a friendly game, but the entire town of Iron Ridge is on the side of the makeshift rink, cheering and clapping.

But all I can do, is stare at the man barking out instructions on the other side of the rink.

Blake's wearing a navy Icehawks jacket pulled tight over his broad shoulders, black gloves flexing as he gestures toward the kids, calling out plays in that deep, commanding voice that makes my legs squeeze together. A gray beanie covers his messy blond hair, but I know exactly what it looks like underneath… damp, disheveled from steam, from sweat, from frustration.

Fromme.

I take a slow sip of my hot chocolate, as if that will extinguish the memory of him stepping toward me last night, of theheatrolling off his damp skin, of his lips hovering so fucking close to mine I could taste his anger.

I tell myself I’m just watching him because it’s work. Because I came to see what this program is really about, just like he told me to.

That’s the only reason I’m staring.

Natalie hums beside me. "You should see him during a real game."

I force myself to blink, my fingers tightening around the paper cup until the cardboard creaks. "Oh, I can imagine."

And I can - all too fucking well.

Because the last time I saw him this intense, this focused, this sharp, he was staringright at me. Telling me to keep my hands offhisteam,hiskids.

But watching him now? Seeing him be this good with them?

I swallow, pressing the rim of the hot chocolate to my lips to mask the way my pulse stutters.

I mean, I wasn't wrong. People would eat this shit up. A star hockey player adored byallhis fans, but he's also a proper role model for the kids who love him?

Maybe there’s more to all of this than I realized.

The game flies by.

The kids are fast, darting across the ice with more energy than some pros I’ve seen. Their jerseys are too big, some of them barely keeping their balance, but they’re grinning, fearless, completely in it.

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