Page 35 of Captain's Claim

No matter how soul crushing their hazel eyes and mouth might be.

"Maybe next time, kids," I tell them, throwing the truck back into drive. "See you lot at training after school. Be good!"

As I pull away, my eyes lock on the Icehawk Stadium, towering against the morning sky. My home. My sanctuary.

Sophia Hart is messing with my head, and if I don’t shake her out of it before tomorrow’s game, I’m screwed.

"Time to get back to work," I mumble, pulling into my reserved parking space.

I kill the ignition, exhaling a slow breath through my nose. The cold bites immediately when I push open the door, but the sharpness of it barely registers. I’m too far in my own head.

I tug my bag over my shoulder and head inside, greeting a few of the facility staff as I move through the halls. Everything is routine. Familiar. Automatic. But I know -I fucking know- that the second I see her, all hell is going to break loose in my head again.

I need caffeine. And maybe a goddamn miracle to get through today.

The Player’s Lounge is empty when I push inside, the warm scent of coffee, eggs, and something maple-sweet hitting me immediately. The place is decked out like a five-star retreat because, well, itis. Especially before gameday.

A massive flat-screen is on and runningSportsCenteralready. Last nights scores roll across the bottom of the screen - Washington pulled another win, Rangers scraped through in OT, Boston blew a three-goal lead and choked.

Satisfied with those results, I head straight for the food, tossing my bag onto one of the chairs. The Icehawks might bleed grit on the ice, but we live like kings off it.

A dedicated chef’s counter is laid out with warm protein pancakes, eggs, and fresh collection of baked goods delivered directly from Summit Café. I grab a maple bacon breakfast sandwich - my favorite.

It's still steaming hot, stacked between a soft, golden bagel.

Next, a black coffee the size of my head. Fuel for the day.

Or, more importantly, fuel to stop me from punching a hole through a wall - because the last time I stood in this exact spot, I hadherin my arms.

I freeze, my grip tightening around the coffee cup.Shit.I can't go anywhere without constant, haunting reminders of her.

It’s so stupid, but suddenly I canseeit again. The way she fit against me, the silk of her stunning emerald dress brushing my hands, the tilt of her chin when she let me lead her across the floor.

That night was the beginning of this mess. The moment the irritation turned into something I don’t know how to fucking handle.

"Jesus, man. Who pissed in your protein shake?"

Connor. Of course they all arrive now.

I open one eye to see him strolling in, tossing his duffel onto the couch before grabbing a plate. Logan’s right behind him, swiping a banana off the counter and narrowing his eyes at me like he’s already onto something.

"You look like you got run over," he observes. A pause. A smirk. "Or—" he leans against the counter, grinning like the smug bastard he is.

I grunt, taking a savage bite of my sandwich. "Fuck off. Don't start."

Ryder walks in next, fork in hand, already halfway through a plate of eggs because the kid is a human garbage disposal. He chews, slow, brows raised.

"You kissed her, didn't you?"

I scowl. "No."

The kids at the rink outside the stadium flash before my eyes."Lies!"

Logan snorts, peeling his banana. "Buddy. We can see it all over your face."

I glare, but it’s too late. They’ve scented blood in the water.

I don’t give them the satisfaction of playing their stupid game. Instead, I shove the last of my sandwich into my mouth and push off the counter, grabbing my duffel from the sofa like the conversation is over.

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