Page 7 of Captain's Claim

The weight of his words hits home. Hard.

This isn't Seattle anymore, where I had backup plans and connections. Iron Ridge is my shot at proving everyone wrong - my former boss who said I was "too ambitious," the network executives who passed me over, every man who suggested I stick to "lifestyle content" and let the boys take care of the sports pages.

My mother's voice echoes in my head again. She was always my biggest supporter.

"You're a woman. They'll try to make you doubt yourself. Don't let them."

I stand, smoothing my blazer down and drying the moisture on my palms while doing so. "Mr. Hawthorne, I understand the financial pressure. But modern sports fans aren't just buying tickets to games - they're investing in stories."

I swipe through my presentation to the engagement metrics.

"Look at the NHL teams thriving right now. They're not just selling hockey - they're selling personalities, journeys, emotional connections. When fans feel personally invested in players, they buy jerseys. They fill seats. They bring their families."

The room is silent for a moment, and like the damn 'hawk' I became when I accepted this job and turned my life upside-down by moving halfway across the country to prove myself, I make sure to capitalize on my moment of opportunity.

"The Nashville Predators doubled their social media revenue last quarter with behind-the-scenes content," I continue, my voice growing louder, stronger. "The Carolina Hurricanes' ticket sales jumped twenty percent after their player spotlight series. This isn't just marketing fluff. It's proven strategy."

Suddenly the overloaded food tray in the middle of the table isn't getting all the attention.

Big Mike's expression remains unchanged, but I catch the slight tilt of his head. The first sign he might actually be listening.

I keep going. "Listen, I get it. Iron Ridgeloveshockey. I can see that when I walk down Main Street, when I stood in the box last night and cheered the team on to victory. But they'll love it even more when they see the real stories behind the players they cheer for."

Greg Mathers' lips curl into a smirk. "Fascinating strategy, Ms. Hart. Tell me… how exactly do you plan to execute these...intimate player profiles when our captain treats media attention like it's the plague?"

My jaw clenches.

Blake Maddox's empty chair might as well have a sign reading 'too important for marketing meetings.' Not a good fucking start.

"Speaking of," Dave chimes in, crossing his thick arms. "Blake's got a strict 'game-only' policy with press. Has since he made captain. Good luck getting him to open up about his breakfast choices, let alone his personal life."

I tap my stylus pen against my tablet, irritation building.

They're right, though.

The Icehawks captain is notorious for dodging interviews, showing up late to mandatory press events, and giving one-word answers that make reporters want to tear their hair out.

And yet he's the cornerstone of my entire strategy.

Like my mother, who led the way as the countries finest sports agent despite being female, I've dealt with stubborn athletes before. If Blake thinks his brooding act will derail my plans, he's about to learn exactly how persistent I can be.

I've fought too hard to let one uncooperative, hockey player - captain or not - stand between me and proving my strategy works.

Last night's memory flashes before me. That challenging stare from across the arena, like he was daring me to try changing his precious team.

Well, Captain Maddox, two can play that game.

I straighten my spine, meeting Greg's smug expression. "Leave Blake Maddox to me."

***

After six hours trapped in my office wrestling with spreadsheets after that headache of a board meeting this morning, the need to stretch my legs is burning about as hot as a much needed boost of caffeine.

I've heard good things about the Player's Lounge, so I head that way first.

The hallways of Icehawk Stadium are long, lined with artifacts from eras gone by. My heels echo against concrete floors as I scan old team photos hung along the walkway. Memorabilia from hard fought games, the precious few highs of this huge franchise that has never exactly tasted what most would class as 'success'.

I'm almost at the Player's Lounge when a burst of laughter draws me toward the practice rink nearby. Through the glass, I spot a cluster of kids in mismatched Icehawks gear circling the ice. Their helmets wobble, sticks wave wildly—

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