Page 4 of Captain's Claim

I tap my stick against my skates, muscle memory taking over as I line up for the face-off. My eyes lock onto the dot, but my mind flicks back to that corporate box. To those calculating hazel eyes studying our every move.

You want a story, Ms. Hart? I'll give you one.

The referee's whistle cuts through the chaos. The puck drops. And just like that, I'm back in the flow.

This is my ice. My team. My city.

And I'm about to remind everyone why.

The puck hits my stick and instantly Denver's defense closes in. But they might as well be standing still. A quick deke left sends their first D-man sprawling. Their captain lunges, stick extended, but I'm already gone, weaving right through the gap he leaves.

The crowd's roar fades to white noise. There's only the scrape of my skates on ice, the weight of the puck on my blade.

In this moment, I'm not the captain with sponsorship deals and a letter on my chest. I'm back on that street, using a tennis ball and a splintered stick held together with tape, dreaming of this exact moment.

Of proving that some kid from the wrong side of Iron Ridge could make it. That's something these big corporate executives don't understand.

Eli Thompson believed in me when no one else did. The Icehawks biggest hero gave me a shot when I was one bad decision away from throwing it all away.

I'm here because of him, because of the chance his youth program, the one I've inherited gave me a chance.

Moving up the ice, I see Denver's goalie drop into butterfly position. But I see his tell - that slight lean left. Amateur mistake. He's giving me the top right corner, probably doesn't even realize it.

I wind up, and whack the puck.

The disc rockets off my stick, and a split second later, the sharp clang of rubber meeting metal triggers the red light behind the net, the buzzer blares, and the arena goes wild all at once…

Pure fucking magic.

My teammates mob me, crashing into my sides with whoops and hollers. Gloves and sticks litter the ice as the world around me shakes.

The Nest has erupted into absolute chaos.

"Icehawks win! Icehawks win!"

The stadium announcer can barely be heard over the noise. Green and white confetti rains down from the rafters, coating the ice like fresh powder. Eighteen thousand fans are on their feet, their screams loud enough to shake the entire fucking planet.

Ridge, our hawk mascot, zip-lines across the stadium waving a massive Icehawks flag from the rafters while "Immigrant Song" blasts through the speakers. The bass vibrates in my chest, mixing with my pounding heartbeat.

Through the pile-on of my teammates, I catch glimpses of faces in the crowd. Kids pressed against the glass, their eyes wide with the same fire I had when I was their age. They’re all wearing my jersey, dreaming the same dream I once did.

Old-timers are wiping tears, families hugging and jumping up and down.

For a moment, it hits me.

Thisis why I play. Not just for the wins, but for the kid who steps onto the ice for the first time and finds his place in the world.

For the youth program that gave me everything - and the one thing in this world that I’ll fight like hell to protect.

My eyes drift to the owner's box where I spot Eli Thompson, fist raised high. Even from here, I can see that proud grin splitting his weathered face. The same one he wore when he first handed me real hockey gear all those years ago.

"Captain!" Jonesy crashes into me again, spraying ice. "Fucking beautiful shot!"

I grab him in a headlock, laughing as more teammates pile on. Connor, Logan, Ryder… we're all a tangle of jerseys and screams, drinking in the madness we've just created.

The Stanley Cup's still evaded us, but tonight? Tonight Iron Ridge owns the fucking world.

I break free of the celebration, spinning on my skates in a slow arc until I'm facing the corporate box again.

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