Page 3 of Captain's Claim

"GOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLL!"

Green and white confetti rains down in the stands as our goal horn blares so loud I can't fucking hear my teammates shouting as they swarm me. My heart pounds with the rhythm of stamping feet and thundering chants.

Ryder's face splits into a grin wider than the rink as I move with our teammates to mob him.

The kid deserves this moment. He's been grinding since training camp in pre-season, putting in extra hours, soaking up every scrap of advice like a sponge.

“Hell of a shot, kid,” I say, clapping a hand on his helmet.

His face is glowing, equal parts exhilaration and disbelief. "You made it easy for me, Cap."

"Not a bad finish for a rookie." I bump his helmet with my glove again. "Keep playing like that, and I might let you buy me dinner."

"Captain, I'd buy you a whole damn steakhouse right now." His eyes shine with a mix of pride and relief.

The rookie’s first goal. Hell of a way to announce yourself to this town.

That's the thing about this place. Once you're one of them, they'll never let you go.

These fans, my people…

This is more than hockey. This is life.

This is Iron Ridge.

I round the final turn, glancing to the clock.

"We still have time!" I shout, leaning on my stick and demanding more from my boys. "No overtime. We finish this now!"

I get a cry of approval as Coach Brody tweaks the lines from the sideline, but something pulls my attention upward.

There, in the corporate box, stands our new marketing executive.Sophia Hart.

She's hard to miss, standing near the glass with her clipboard clutched against her chest. Her sleek, city-slicker suit hugs her body, those wide hips flaring out with a roundness that makes my mouth go dry.

She's all polished, pristine and abnormally perfect. Corporate precision, I might call it - no one can bethateasy on the eye.

Her bright blonde hair is swept into one of those professional updos, but a few loose strands curl softly at the nape of her neck, brushing her collarbone, teasing my eyes toward the delicate curve where her neck meets her shoulder.

She leans forward, her hazel eyes locked on the ice. I can't help but notice how her silk blouse clings to the swell of her chest, hinting at curves that have no business being this distracting.

She doesn’t cheer like the rest of the crowd. She doesn’t wave a scarf or pound her fists against the glass. No… there’s something about the way she stands there, the ever so subtle lift of her lips, that makes my jaw tighten.

She's watching.

Not the game or the stadium around her… No.

She's watchingme.

Doesn’t matter how sharp her suit looks under the fluorescents, or how those heels make her legs look impossibly long. She doesn’t belong here. Not inmyworld.

She's just the suit dressed in expensive heels, flown in to "fix" the Icehawks brand. Whatever the fuck that means.

I don’t care how pretty she is.

She doesn’t belong here.

I focus back on the ice. Two minutes left. Game tied 1-1. The energy in the building is like the lightning pelting down on the mountain peaks that surround this small town before a storm.

---