Page 99 of Captain's Claim

"Unfortunately, baby, I have to get to the rink."

He sinks down on the side of the bed, kissing me again as I sit up and accept the cup with a grateful hum.

I groan, burying my face into the pillow as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"You’re cruel first thing in the morning, you know that?"

"But I finish practice at twelve. Meet me in the Player's Lounge after?"

I giggle and lean in for another kiss, pulling back and taking a moment to really look at him.

It's unfair how devastating he is first thing in the morning – all rumpled hair and sleepy gray eyes. The way he stretches and covers his yawn, muscles rippling across his broad shoulders, making my mouth water like I'm staring at a breakfast buffet.

My fingers itch to trace the Icehawks tattoo on his forearm, but I clutch my coffee mug instead. The media circus from yesterday churns in my stomach, threatening to spoil this peaceful moment.

But my sexy man?

He never lets me stew in the turmoil for too long.

The shower hisses to life in the bathroom, and my phone buzzes from its exile in my sock drawer. Placing my coffee on the nightstand, I pull it out and my mother's name flashes across the screen.

I press the phone to my ear. "Hey, Mom."

"Sweetheart, I just saw the articles. Just ringing to make sure you're okay?"

Shit.

There’s a softness in her voice I don’t expect, and that alone puts me on edge.

I brace myself for the lecture. The one about controlling narratives, staying ahead of the media cycle, and turning bad press into leverage.

Mom's built her career on managing sports media circuses just like this one and I'm actually surprised it's taken her this long to call me.

I rub my temple, already exhausted. More coffee. I need more coffee.

"I’m fine. It’s just noise. It’ll blow over."

"You sure about that?"

Oddly, her tone isn’t accusing. It’s knowing.

"What else am I supposed to do? This is the job, right? Media, spin, crisis control. It’s part of the package."

She hums in a way that I’ve seen a thousand times before - lips pressed, brow slightly furrowed. I don't even need to see her to know the expression on her face right now.

The same way she used to when I was a kid, sitting on the couch, watching her work PR magic with her high-profile clients. Athletes, coaches, sports executives, it didn't matter who it was, my mother had the answers.

"This isn’t just media spin, Sophia," she finally says. "It’s you. The way they’re talking about you, about your career, your relationship… It’s not about your work. They’re turningyouinto a story."

A lump forms in my throat.

I know she’s right. I've known it ever since we got back from Chicago. That's when things started to feel different. Not just around town, but in the board room too.

But hearing someone else say it? And not just me thinking it?

Itstings.

I force a dry laugh. "Yeah, well, that’s what I get for falling for the star player, I guess."

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