Page 32 of Captain's Claim

He turns, eyes sharp beneath weathered brows, and a small smirk tugs at his mouth like he already knows exactly why I’m here.

"Sorry I didn't get to talk to you properly before. I was… dragged away."

He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah, I saw. Hell of a snowball fight this year.”

I ignore the way my stomach tightens at the thought of what hesaw.

Focus, Sophia.

“I was thinking…” I tread carefully, watching his face. “Earlier, you said something about the youth program meaning something to Blake. What did you mean by that?”

Eli doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he studies me, his expression unreadable but knowing, like he’s deciding just how much he wants to say.

Then he just chuckles. A deep, low sound that’s more amused than dismissive. Not a full laugh. More like a man recalling something private. Something important.

And that only makes me more curious.

“Look,” I press, folding my arms over my coat. “If I’m supposed to be working with this team, then I should understand what’s important to them. Why does the youth program matter so much to him?”

Eli exhales slowly, his breath a soft mist in the cold.

“Listen, Sophia. That's not my story to tell,” he says simply.

I bite back a groan. “Seriously?”

His smirk deepens. “If you really want to understand Maddox…” He shifts his weight, glancing briefly toward the main street. “Swing by Ridgeview Tavern tomorrow night. I'll be there. I think it might help explain a few things.”

Eli gives me one last knowing smirk before turning toward the whiskey stall, conversation clearly over.

***

The Ridgeview Tavern is louder than I expected.

Not in an overwhelming, big city club way, but in a deep bellied laughter, glasses-clinking, someone-yelling-about-last-week’s-game kind of way.

It’s the kind of place that feelsalive.

A massive stone fireplace dominates one corner, flames dancing behind the grate. The walls showcase decades of hockey history - signed pucks, vintage photos, worn sticks mounted like trophies.

An Icehawks jersey hangs in pride of place above the bar, the signature across the number faded but still visible. The bar top itself is polished, lined with locally brewed beer taps and bottles of whiskey that look like they’ve been here longer than I’ve been alive.

This isn’t just a bar.

It’s history. It’s belonging. It’s everything Iron Ridge bleeds for.

The tavern buzzes with life. A group of regulars cluster around a table, their laughter punctuating the classic rock playing softly overhead. Two older men at the bar debate what sounds like ancient playoff statistics, while a younger couple shares delicious looking wings in a corner booth beneath a framed newspaper declaring "IRON RIDGE CLINCHES NEWEST FRANCHISE."

This isn't just some sports bar with memorabilia slapped on the walls. Every photo tells a story. Every mounted stick probably scored a legendary goal. The worn wooden floors have absorbed thousands of celebrations and commiserations.

For the first time since arriving in this town, I hesitate.

I know how to walk into boardrooms. I know how to pitch ideas, command attention, sell a vision.

But this?

This isn’t business. This is personal.

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