Page 33 of Captain's Claim

I tug off my gloves, shoving them into my coat pockets as I scan the room.

I spot Eli behind the bar and something clicks. This ishisbar. That's his jersey above the bar, and they're probably his game-winning pucks thathe'ssigned.

I smile his way and he pulls a glass out of nowhere, clutching a whiskey bottle and gesturing towards an empty stool. I cross the room, weaving between tables, dodging a waitress balancing a tray of overflowing beers and settle on the stool right at the front of the bar.

"Welcome to Ridgeview," Eli says, setting the short glass down in front of me with a soft thunk. "Been expecting you, Ms. Hart."

I take a sip of the whiskey - smooth, rich, with a hint of vanilla. Not the mass-market stuff I'm used to in corporate bars.

"How'd you know I'd come?" I ask.

Eli's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Because from where I'm standing, I can see you're smart enough to know there's more to this team than stats and social media metrics."

He pulls out a weathered photo album from under the bar, leather cracked with age, the edges worn like it’s been flipped through a thousand times.

From somewhere down the bar, a gruff voice groans, “Oh God, he’s got that damn photo album out again.”

Another voice chimes in, equally exasperated. “Somebody cut him off before he starts telling the ‘when I broke my nose in the playoffs and still scored the game-winner’ story.”

Eli doesn’t even look up as he flips the album open. “If you old bastards don’t like my stories, you’re welcome to take your asses to the diner for a warm milk and a nap.”

A round of grumbling laughter ripples down the bar.

I fight the tug of a smile as Eli flips the first page.

"See this?" He points to a black and white shot of men clearing snow off what looks like a frozen pond. "That's where the Icehawks started. No fancy stadium. No corporate boxes. Just folks who loved the game enough to shovel snow at five AM so their kids could play."

I sip my whiskey as the pages turn before my eyes, each one revealing another piece of history. Players in vintage uniforms. Play-off celebrations. Community events.

"This town was dying back then," Eli continues, wiping a glass. "Steel mill closed. Shops shuttering. But hockey? Hockey gave people something to rally around. Something to believe in."

A cheer erupts from the corner table - someone's telling a story about a legendary game-winning goal.

"That youth program you're so interested in? The one Blake thinks you're trying to ruin?" Eli's voice drops lower. "It's not about creating feel-good content, Ms. Hart. For some of these kids, it's the only stable thing they've got. The only place they belong."

I think about the practice rink, about Blake teaching that small boy how to stop properly. About the pride in the kid's eyes when he finally got it right. About the game at the winter festival yesterday.

"The Icehawks aren't just a hockey team," Eli says, refilling my glass. "They're the heartbeat of Iron Ridge. Always have been."

I glance around the tavern again, seeing it with new eyes. Every photo, every mounted stick, every jersey - they're not decorations. They're pieces of people's lives. Their hopes. Their dreams. Their identity.

My marketing strategy suddenly feels hollow, superficial.

I've been planning to try to sell a product when this was never about products at all.

I trace my finger along the edge of my whiskey glass, gathering my courage. "Don't get me wrong… this history lesson is fascinating, Eli. Really, it is. But what does it have to do with Blake? Why does he fight so hard against letting me tell these kids stories?"

Eli's ice-blue eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, I see a flash of that legendary enforcer who used to protect his teammates on the ice. "Like I've told you, that's not my story to tell, Ms. Hart. But I will say this – some of us understand that program better than others because we'velivedit. That's why you needed to see this, to see beyond the glass-walled office that you've been living in."

He turns another page in the album, and I catch a glimpse of a much younger Eli, kneeling next to what looks like a teenage boy with familiar ash-blond hair. The photo is worn, creased, like it's been handled countless times.

I'm sure it's a younger looking…Blake?

Before I can get a better look, Eli closes the album with a decisive snap. "Sometimes the best stories are the ones that stay untold. At least until the right person comes along to tell them. If you really want to change the youth program, Ms. Hart, then do so under Blake Maddox's guidance. Go behind his back, and he might never forgive you."

I take another sip of whiskey, letting the warmth spread through my chest as understanding begins to dawn.

Blake isn't just protecting those kids from the outside world – he's protecting something much more personal.

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