Page 8 of Captain's Claim

And there's Blake Maddox in the center of it all.

He drops to one knee, gesturing a tiny player over with a wave of his hand. The kid's skates scrape across the ice and Blake's massive hands work quickly, retying loose laces while the child steadies themselves on his shoulder.

"There you go, buddy." Blake's deep voice carries through the glass shielding the hallway from the rink. He taps the kid's helmet. "Now show me that crossover again. Both feet this time."

The same man who put Roberts through the boards last night now guides a wobbly seven-year-old through basic footwork with infinite patience.

But he couldn't make the damn meeting this morning?

"Keep those knees bent!" Blake skates backward, demonstrating the move he requires. "Like you're sitting in a chair. There you go! You got it, you got it!"

The kids hang on his every word. When another one falls, Blake helps them up with a strong hand - those massive, capable fingers that could probably span my entire waist if I let him.

I can't help the smile that curls on my face when he slaps the kid on the back and gets him to try again. When another boy nearby nails a drill, Blake's proud smile lights up the entire rink.

And holy hell… what a smile that is.

Devastating. Like it should come with its own warning label:Caution, may cause spontaneous ovulation.

It transforms his whole face, softening those sharp cheekbones and making his steel-gray eyes sparkle in a way that sends heat pooling low in my belly.

I've never seen anything like it.

This can't be the same media-avoiding grouch the board warned me about. The Blake Maddox I've heard about doesn't ruffle helmets or high-five kids or show off those impressive thighs in workout gear or...

Shit.

He's spotted me through the glass.

Within seconds, he's skated off the ice, his broad frame cutting a path through the kids who scatter like ducks on a frozen lake. He steps off the practice rink and tugs his helmet off, his messy ash-blond hair damp with sweat as he stalks towards me, shaking the wild mane from over his eyes.

Oh my… Why was that so hot?

"Ms. Hart," he says, his tone clipped as he looks down at me like I’ve wandered intohiskingdom uninvited. "If you’re here to critique my skating, you’re about twenty years too late."

Credit where it's due, even for an asshole, he's very,verygood looking.

His practice jersey clings to his chest, soaked with sweat, which should be totally gross, yet somehow… he's like a human glacier that's pulling off 'sweaty' like it's a cologne ad.

"Right." I fold my arms, refusing to be cowed by the 6'4" hockey god in sweat-soaked workout gear. "Because it looks like you’ve gotthatunder control."

His brow lifts. "Was that sarcasm?"

"You’re quick."

I give my head a shake, trying to ignore the way his short sleeved training top does absolutely nothing to hide the way his biceps flex as he crosses his arms over his broad chest.

His mouth curves, a smirk that’s equal parts annoying and… okay, fine,distracting. "And here I thought you were all about positivity. Hashtagteam spiritand all that."

I'm just standing here, trying not to stare at the Icehawks tattoo on his forearm.Great.Now I’m wondering if the Icehawks tattoo is part of some Iron Ridge initiation ritual, or if it’s just another excuse to show off those arms.

Either way, it’s working.

There's another tattoo peeking out from his sleeve - something dark that disappears beneath the fabric, making me wonder just how far it extends.

Stop wondering about his tattoos, Sophia. For God's sake, get it together.

"For your information, I’m here because this—" I gesture toward the kids flailing across the ice, one of whom has just face-planted for the third time—"might be the most engaging thing the Icehawks have going for them right now. But I guesscommunity engagementwasn’t high on your priority list this morning when you skipped the board meeting."

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