Page 65 of Captain's Claim

"We'll start with some reaction shots," Greg says, gesturing to the chair. "Just smile and look... you know,approachable."

Approachable. Right. Because that's exactly what I went to business school for.

But I force my expression neutral. Years of watching my mother navigate this world taught me when to pick my battles.

"Fine," I say, smoothing my skirt. "Where's the kid? Let's do the interview."

I settle into the interview chair as thirteen-year-old Jackson Maze fidgets nervously beside me, his Icehawks practice jersey slightly too big for his lanky frame. His dark curls peek out from under a well-worn team cap that looks like it's been signed by the entire locker room.

Poor kid is just as nervous as I am. He keeps glancing at the cameras and picking at his palms.

"Just pretend they're not there," I say softly, trying to channel my most reassuring smile.

But something nags at my fuzzy memory from last night. Some kind of flickering in my brain, half-buried under the fog of one too many cocktails.

Blake's voice, low and intimate in the darkness of my bedroom...

The memoryslamsinto me.

Blake tucked me into bed. I remember it now.

His deep voice had woven stories about growing up in Iron Ridge as I nestled against him, trying my hardest to stay awake, just to listen.

They weren't justanystories - they were about how he'd beenthatkid, just like Jackson. A scrappy boy from the wrong side of town, getting into fights, anger burning through him until hockey gave him purpose.

Eli found me using a broken hockey stick…

Clean the rink, maintain good grades...

I glance at Jackson again, seeing him in a new light. The way he holds himself - proud but guarded, like he's waiting forsomeone to tell him he doesn't belong. Just like Blake must have felt at the same age.

Something settles heavy in my stomach.

And I don't think it's the hangover resurfacing.

I glance at the cameras. At Greg, rubbing his hands together like an evil genius at the thought of another viral moment coming his way.

"Ready?" Greg calls from behind the camera, his eyes flashing dollar signs already.

No. I'm not ready at all. Not when I finally understand what this program really means, what Blake has been trying to tell me all along.

And then, like I summoned him through sheer chaotic willpower, the interview room door swings open with way too much force.

Blake Maddox strides in, all towering dominance and authority, his presence immediately sucking the air out of the room.

The crew stops moving. Greg’s mouth falls open like a star struck teenager. Jackson practically vibrates with excitement.

And me?

I have deeply inconvenient thoughts about how stupidly good he looks right now, even if he doesn’t look at me at first.

His gaze goes straight to Jackson, his expression warming in that way that makes my stomach do deeply inconvenient things.

"Looking sharp, kid."

Jackson practicallyglowsunder his hero's praise.

But when Blake's eyes lock on me, they turn to steel.

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