Page 41 of Captain's Claim

His smirk deepens. "And missthis? Not a chance."

Blake’s grip tightens on my waist, steady and sure, his fingers flexing slightly like he knows exactly how to keep me upright. Even if my legs have turned into absolute traitors beneath me.

"Just relax. I've got you."

I don’t dare move.

I barelybreathe.

Becauseof coursehe’s good at this.

Of course he’s the type of man who can hold me like I weigh nothing, like it’s no effort at all to keep me steady when my entire world is slipping out from under me.

A quick glance toward the boards confirms my fear. Greg, phone in hand, looking far too smug about this whole thing is filming every painful second of this.

Then there's the rest of the team. They aren't much better.

Water bottles are being chugged, arms are folded, and there’s way too much attention on the way Blake is currently holding me together.

I try to step back, to create some kind of space, but Blake doesn’t budge.

“Eyes on me, Hart.” His voice is calm, but firm. “Not them. You focus on them, you’ll fall on your ass.”

I huff. “You're not exactly encouraging me right now. I hope you don't coach those kids with that tone."

His smirk is infuriating. “Fine. You want encouragement? Stop fighting it. You’re thinking too hard.”

“Thinking too—Blake!”

He let's me go. He fucking lets me go!

My stomachlurchesas the solid warmth of Blake’s hands disappears from my waist.

"Trust me, Sophia. You can do this."

"Blake, no-"

Panic claws up my throat, but before I can flail like an idiot, my skates glide -actually glide -across the ice, the momentum carrying me forward with surprising ease.

A startled squeak escapes me as I wobble, arms flailing. Somehow I don’t immediately faceplant. It's a miracle.

From the boards, a few of the guys let out exaggerated whistles and cheers.

“Atta girl, Hart!” Ryder whoops, banging his stick against the glass along with the rest of the team.

"Blake, I hate you. Ihateyou!" I cry out, my skates still sliding on their own accord.

Blake, skating backward in front of me, smiles right at me. “See? Told you you can do it.”

My skates carry me forward faster than I’m ready for, momentum taking over, andshit, I don’t know how to stop.

“Blake,” I warn, flailing. “How do I—how do I stop?!”

“Bend your knees,” he instructs, skating backward in front of me, like this is all one big game. “Shift your weight. Angle your—”

“Too late—too late!”

Panic claws up my throat as the boards rush closer, and I do the only thing my traitorous survival instincts allow: I pivot straight into him.

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