Page 42 of Captain's Claim

Icollidewith Blake’s chest, gripping his jersey in a desperate attempt to stay upright. He lets out a low grunt, arms snapping around me, his strong frame absorbing the impact as we spin, his skates carving a sharp arc into the ice.

Everything slows.

For one awful, suspended moment, I feel everything.

His arms around my waist. His body beneath mine. The heat of his breath, still slightly winded, warming my ear.

And worst of all? The way his hands stay put, firm on my hips, like he has no intention of ever letting go.

“Y’alright, sweetheart?”

His voice is low.Toolow.

Ifeelit more than I hear it, his grip steadying me, keeping me upright when my legs are still wobbling beneath me.

But I can’t begrateful.

Not when the entire Icehawks roster is watching.

Not when Logan is already wolf whistling from the bench, Ryder is nudging Connor like this is the best damn thing he’s ever seen, and Greg - oh God,Gregis still filming this.

Mortification floods me. I overreact instantly.

“This isyourfault!” I blurt out, shoving at his chest.

Blake blinks. “My fault? Wh-”

“You let go of me! Who lets go of a beginner skater? That’s—” I wave wildly at the ice, where my dignity is currentlymelting into the surface.“That’s negligent coaching!”

His lips twitch.The asshole is trying not to laugh.

I shove at him again, untangling myself, still breathless, still burning, but I need to get the hell out of here.

Blake’s voice follows me as I storm off the ice, hobbling like a toddler while chuckles ripple across the sides of the arena.

“Sweetheart, if I didn’t know better…” His tone is amused, teasing, but something else lingers beneath it. Something darker. Something that makes my pulse rate spike.

“…I’d think you just wanted me to catch you.”

I whip around to glare at him.

But the only thing worse than Blake Maddox catching me on the ice?

Is the fact that he might not be wrong.

Chapter Eleven

Blake

I'm not stalking her. That would be creepy.

And I'm not fucking creepy.

I’m just sitting here in my truck, parked outside her apartment, watching the glow of her window like a complete goddamn lunatic.

I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling hard enough to fog up the windshield.

I should go home. I should be in bed, getting my body ready for game day tomorrow. I should be focused on the playbook, my line shifts, andnotthe fact that Sophia Hart is currently on the other side of that window, probably cursing my name from the way I acted earlier today.

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