Page 34 of Captain's Claim

The question is: what the hell am I going to do with the board already breathing down my neck?

Chapter Nine

Blake

I’m officially losing it.

It’s been two days. Forty-eight hours. Two entire rotations of the goddamn earth since I kissed Sophia Hart, and I still feel her.

That’s a problem.

I throw my pride and joy, the beautiful Range Rover Sport into drive, gripping the steering wheel like I'm about to cross-check it into the boards. The rumble of the engine hums beneath my palms, but my pulse is a fucking mess.

I haven’t slept in two nights, haven’t eaten anything that actually tastes like food, and whatever sanity I had left? I'm pretty sure that left my soul the minute Sophia's lips detached from mine.

It's all her fault.

The way she melted against me before she pulled away, pushing against my chest and leaving me hanging.

I scowl at my reflection in the rearview mirror. "Get your head out of your ass, Maddox. You've got a game tomorrow."

Eighteen thousand fans will pack The Nest tomorrow night, expecting their captain to deliver after our embarrassing loss on the road.

That last game... I'd been distracted. Off my rhythm. The whole team felt it. When your captain's head isn't in the game, it ripples through the lineup like a crack in the ice.

I can't afford to be like that again tomorrow.

The truck glides through town, tires crunching over snow-packed roads as Iron Ridge wakes up around me. It's early, the streetlamps still flickering, but that doesn't stop the kids from the youth program who are already out on the frozen pond near the stadium, bundled up in coats and hockey gear, knocking a puck around before school.

Jackson Maze fires off a slapshot, his stance solid despite the fact that his skates are at least a size too big. Mikey Harris, the smallest of the bunch, dives in front of it without hesitation, his mitts swallowing his hands, his stick a little too short, a little too worn.

But he doesn’t care.

None of them do.

Because out here, on this ice, they’re not just kids from broken homes or struggling families. They’re hockey players.

My foot eases off the gas. The scent of fresh cinnamon rolls drifts from Summit Café around the corner, and I call out to the boys.

"Morning, boys."

They all spin, grinning like I just walked on water.

"It's Captain Maddox!" One kid puffs out his chest, tapping his stick against the ice. "You see that shot?"

I lean my elbow against the window frame, deadpan. "Not bad. But I'd glove save that easy."

Shock. Pure shock and outrage.

"Lies!"

"No way!"

"Come out here and prove it!"

I smirk, and it's nice to have something other than the thought ofherlips spinning through my mind.

These kids?Theyare the reason I fight for this program. The reason I don't let corporate execs and their sharp, figure hugging pencil skirts try and turn it into some PR stunt.

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