Page 5 of Captain's Claim

From down on the ice, my eyes lock with Sophia Hart's, and even from this distance, I can see it. That perfect, unbothered composure that she's held since she walked in the door two days ago… It's cracked.

I raise my fist, squeezing it tight into the air, a deliberate challenge.

Let her bring her fancy marketing plans and her corporate makeover ideas. She can take her notes, draft her reports and pitch her shiny new Instagram posts.

But this is Iron Ridge hockey.

This is real, raw and unfiltered.

And for as long as I'm wearing the C on this green and gray jersey, that's how it's staying.

I pull the emblem emblazed on the jersey to my lips, kissing the badge of my team as my eyes remain locked on Sophia's.

Yeah, Sophia Hart, you just try and change us. I dare you.

Chapter Two

Sophia

Sitting in the boardroom as the powers that be gather around the long, polished table, I'm trying to focus on the stats on my tablet, but everything is just blurring together.

Attendance figures, merchandise sales, social media engagement.

Even through the haze of nerves, I can see everything is trending downward.

Everything except for one bright spot:Blake Maddox.

The adrenaline from the game last night still pulses through my veins as I sit here, waiting for the board meeting to start. The power players at Icehawk Stadium will be here any second, waiting for me to deliver my answer to all their problems.

I glance down at the ice rink below and try to suck in some deep, calming breaths.

The arena is empty now, but I swear I can still hear the echoes of last night’s game. The pounding of the boards, theblaring music, the zip-lining hawk-looking-dude hanging from the roof…

It was a festival. A show like I've never seen before.

I look back to my tablet, and there it is again. The answer to all their problems.

Blake Maddox.

The captain, the hero, the untouchable face of Iron Ridge hockey.

Too bad he’s also about to become my biggest headache.

I force myself to take a sip of water from the glass in front of me. I can’t stop fixating on the spread of food laid out down the center of the table.

There's a platter of fresh fruit so perfectly arranged it could be a magazine cover, glossy croissants piled high on a silver tray, and a mountain of maple-glazed pastries that look so decadent, they practically screamwe’re rich enough to eat dessert at 9 a.m.

I haven’t touched a single thing, not that anyone’s noticed. The men slowly filtering into the room are far too busy adjusting their ties and helping themselves to the smorgasbord dished out with no expense spared.

Big Mike Hawthorne, the owner and chief investor of the Icehawks, grumbles about last night’s 'bullshit' penalties as he reaches for a sticky bun the size of my face. Greg Mathers, the CFO, carefully selects a slice of some kind of artisanal quiche, muttering something about the referee's actions affecting the budget while taking a bite.

Even Dave Carlson, the ex-enforcer, snatches a muffin and polishes it off in two bites before he’s fully seated. A few more figures pile into the room and with each new suit settling around the table, I’m sitting here like a deer in headlights, gripping my tablet like it’s a life raft.

This is so far out of my depth, it’s not even funny.

I straighten my spine, drawing on memories of my mother walking into rooms just like this. How many times had I watched her, a lone woman among suits, ties and burly beards, commanding attention with nothing but sheer determination and razor-sharp intelligence?

"They'll try to make you feel small,"she'd told me once."That's when you have to have the biggest balls in the room."

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