Page 1

Chapter One

Blake

H ere I am again.

Third goddamn game in a row. Caged like an animal, forced to watch my team skate past without me.

The crowd's chanting pounds against the glass, the vibration flowing beneath me as I grip the edge of the bench seat in the penalty box.

"Maddox! Maddox! Maddox!"

My name echoes around me like a fucking war cry. The stands of Icehawk Stadium pulse with a sea of forest green and charcoal, eighteen thousand strong rising to their feet. Even the stuffy suits in the corporate box press against the glass, their usual composure forgotten in the electric atmosphere.

A sneering smile creeps on my lips.

There's no place like this.

My gaze sweeps across the Hawk's Nest where our die-hards bang their drums with a fury that matches the thunder in my veins. Green and white scarves whip through the air like battle flags.

It's a frenzy. A damn carnival in here.

A flash of movement catches my eye. Section 214, a kid in my jersey pounds on the glass, dark eyes blazing with the same fire that used to burn in mine at that age. Back when I was that scrappy teenager watching from the nosebleeds, dreaming of the day I'd wear this C on my chest.

The penalty box timer ticks down with agonizing slowness.

My team needs their captain. And in exactly one minute and seventeen seconds, they're gonna get him.

That cheap shot cost us, and my team's down by one with five minutes left in the third.

The ref drops the puck. Bodies clash. Sticks crack against each other. My leg bounces with pent-up energy as I watch Denver's top line trying to maintain possession. They're playing keep-away, burning precious seconds off the clock.

"Thirty seconds!" The timekeeper's voice cuts through the thundering chants.

I rise, stretching my legs, rolling my shoulders. A roar threatens to rip the roof right of this fucking place.

"Twenty seconds!"

I clip my helmet back on, and across the ice, I spot Denver's winger – Isaak Roberts. He glides past again, tapping his stick against the glass, tormenting me, intimidating me like he has all fucking game.

My blood boils.

I force a cold smile. Asshole doesn't know what's coming.

I've been in this game long enough to know revenge is best served on the scoreboard. My cheek might be aching, the bruise from his crushing blow that forced me to snap in the moment of pure emotion, but I know what needs to be done.

The crowd's countdown echoes through the stadium.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!"

I flex my fingers inside my gloves, the familiar ache in my knuckles a reminder of why I'm in here. In the penalty box. Again.

The media says I'm slowing down. That I've wasted the Icehawks first round draft pick ten years ago. They're telling the world I've under-delivered, fallen short of expectations and made the brand of my hometown franchise fail before it ever truly got the chance to bloom.

"Seven! Six!"

But I'm not done yet. Not by a long shot. Ten years of blood and sweat have gone into this team, this town, and I've got plenty more to give.

I'm at the door, the referee's arm holding me back as the arena fucking shakes around us. The roar of thousands fans makes the glass rattle in its frame, sending vibrations straight through my bones.

Roberts has the puck along the boards. Exactly where I want him. The smug bastard's been running his mouth all night, taking cheap shots when the refs aren't looking.

My eyes narrow, locking onto my target. Every muscle in my body coils tight, ready to spring.

"Five! Four!"

He thinks he's got this game locked down, but he doesn't know Iron Ridge. Doesn't know me. Doesn't understand what it means to fight for something bigger than yourself, to carry the weight of an entire community's dreams on your shoulders.

I'm Blake Maddox. Heart and soul of this damn town. The kid who used to sweep these same boards long after the lights went out, who learned to skate on borrowed blades, who bleeds green and gray.

"Three! Two! One!"

The door clicks open.

The roar… the fucking roar…

It hits me full force as my skates bite into the ice, gripping in as I explode from the box, every muscle burning. The crowd's raucous energy surges through me, pushing me like a fucking electric current as I beeline straight for Roberts.

He sees me coming.

His eyes go wide.

That cocky smirk falters for a split second before he dishes the puck away.

Too late, buddy.

I'm on him in three strides, pinning him hard against the boards. My elbow lands right on his nose, sending his helmet flying off and spinning across the ice. The satisfying thud of the hit reverberates through my shoulder as the stadium erupts around me.

"Not so tough now, are you?" I growl, close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead.

He shoves back, but I'm already gone, tracking the puck as it slides to my defenseman.

Time to show this punk what Iron Ridge hockey really means.

I circle back, finding open ice near center. The weight of responsibility settles over me as I read the play developing.

Four minutes left. One goal down. This is what I live for.

"Here!" I bark, tapping my stick on the ice. Logan Kane, best defenseman in the entire fucking league spots me and slides the puck right onto my tape like it's drawn by a magnet.

Roberts is on his feet, charging at me again, but he's about to learn – you don't corner a hawk in its own nest.

Years of experience have taught me to see the patterns, to feel the rhythm of the game in my blood.

I look up, and Ryder Scott, our rookie forward, is exactly where I need him to be. The kid's got instincts. If he keeps his head down, he might change our entire season. His scruffy hair peeks out from under his helmet as he positions himself near the goal, practically vibrating with urgency.

The defenders haven't spotted him. Their mistake.

With a flick of my wrist, I thread the needle. The puck whistles through a maze of sticks and skates, right onto Ryder's stick.

Time slows.

The crowd holds its breath.

Ryder doesn't hesitate.

One touch, top shelf. Right where mama keeps the cookies.

The red light flashes. The Nest explodes.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLL!"

Green and white confetti rains down in the stands as our goal horn blares so loud I can't fucking hear my teammates shouting as they swarm me. My heart pounds with the rhythm of stamping feet and thundering chants.

Ryder's face splits into a grin wider than the rink as I move with our teammates to mob him.

The kid deserves this moment. He's been grinding since training camp in pre-season, putting in extra hours, soaking up every scrap of advice like a sponge.

“Hell of a shot, kid,” I say, clapping a hand on his helmet.

His face is glowing, equal parts exhilaration and disbelief. "You made it easy for me, Cap."

"Not a bad finish for a rookie." I bump his helmet with my glove again. "Keep playing like that, and I might let you buy me dinner."

"Captain, I'd buy you a whole damn steakhouse right now." His eyes shine with a mix of pride and relief.

The rookie’s first goal. Hell of a way to announce yourself to this town.

That's the thing about this place. Once you're one of them, they'll never let you go.

These fans, my people…

This is more than hockey. This is life.

This is Iron Ridge.

I round the final turn, glancing to the clock.

"We still have time!" I shout, leaning on my stick and demanding more from my boys. "No overtime. We finish this now!"

I get a cry of approval as Coach Brody tweaks the lines from the sideline, but something pulls my attention upward.

There, in the corporate box, stands our new marketing executive. Sophia Hart.

She's hard to miss, standing near the glass with her clipboard clutched against her chest. Her sleek, city-slicker suit hugs her body, those wide hips flaring out with a roundness that makes my mouth go dry.

She's all polished, pristine and abnormally perfect. Corporate precision, I might call it - no one can be that easy on the eye.

Her bright blonde hair is swept into one of those professional updos, but a few loose strands curl softly at the nape of her neck, brushing her collarbone, teasing my eyes toward the delicate curve where her neck meets her shoulder.

She leans forward, her hazel eyes locked on the ice. I can't help but notice how her silk blouse clings to the swell of her chest, hinting at curves that have no business being this distracting.

She doesn’t cheer like the rest of the crowd. She doesn’t wave a scarf or pound her fists against the glass. No… there’s something about the way she stands there, the ever so subtle lift of her lips, that makes my jaw tighten.

She's watching.

Not the game or the stadium around her… No.

She's watching me .

Doesn’t matter how sharp her suit looks under the fluorescents, or how those heels make her legs look impossibly long. She doesn’t belong here. Not in my world.

She's just the suit dressed in expensive heels, flown in to "fix" the Icehawks brand. Whatever the fuck that means.

I don’t care how pretty she is.

She doesn’t belong here.

I focus back on the ice. Two minutes left. Game tied 1-1. The energy in the building is like the lightning pelting down on the mountain peaks that surround this small town before a storm.

I tap my stick against my skates, muscle memory taking over as I line up for the face-off. My eyes lock onto the dot, but my mind flicks back to that corporate box. To those calculating hazel eyes studying our every move.

You want a story, Ms. Hart? I'll give you one.

The referee's whistle cuts through the chaos. The puck drops. And just like that, I'm back in the flow.

This is my ice. My team. My city.

And I'm about to remind everyone why.

The puck hits my stick and instantly Denver's defense closes in. But they might as well be standing still. A quick deke left sends their first D-man sprawling. Their captain lunges, stick extended, but I'm already gone, weaving right through the gap he leaves.

The crowd's roar fades to white noise. There's only the scrape of my skates on ice, the weight of the puck on my blade.

In this moment, I'm not the captain with sponsorship deals and a letter on my chest. I'm back on that street, using a tennis ball and a splintered stick held together with tape, dreaming of this exact moment.

Of proving that some kid from the wrong side of Iron Ridge could make it. That's something these big corporate executives don't understand.

Eli Thompson believed in me when no one else did. The Icehawks biggest hero gave me a shot when I was one bad decision away from throwing it all away.

I'm here because of him, because of the chance his youth program, the one I've inherited gave me a chance.

Moving up the ice, I see Denver's goalie drop into butterfly position. But I see his tell - that slight lean left. Amateur mistake. He's giving me the top right corner, probably doesn't even realize it.

I wind up, and whack the puck.

The disc rockets off my stick, and a split second later, the sharp clang of rubber meeting metal triggers the red light behind the net, the buzzer blares, and the arena goes wild all at once…

Pure fucking magic.

My teammates mob me, crashing into my sides with whoops and hollers. Gloves and sticks litter the ice as the world around me shakes.

The Nest has erupted into absolute chaos.

"Icehawks win! Icehawks win!"

The stadium announcer can barely be heard over the noise. Green and white confetti rains down from the rafters, coating the ice like fresh powder. Eighteen thousand fans are on their feet, their screams loud enough to shake the entire fucking planet.

Ridge , our hawk mascot, zip-lines across the stadium waving a massive Icehawks flag from the rafters while " Immigrant Song " blasts through the speakers. The bass vibrates in my chest, mixing with my pounding heartbeat.

Through the pile-on of my teammates, I catch glimpses of faces in the crowd. Kids pressed against the glass, their eyes wide with the same fire I had when I was their age. They’re all wearing my jersey, dreaming the same dream I once did.

Old-timers are wiping tears, families hugging and jumping up and down.

For a moment, it hits me.

This is why I play. Not just for the wins, but for the kid who steps onto the ice for the first time and finds his place in the world.

For the youth program that gave me everything - and the one thing in this world that I’ll fight like hell to protect.

My eyes drift to the owner's box where I spot Eli Thompson, fist raised high. Even from here, I can see that proud grin splitting his weathered face. The same one he wore when he first handed me real hockey gear all those years ago.

"Captain!" Jonesy crashes into me again, spraying ice. "Fucking beautiful shot!"

I grab him in a headlock, laughing as more teammates pile on. Connor, Logan, Ryder… we're all a tangle of jerseys and screams, drinking in the madness we've just created.

The Stanley Cup's still evaded us, but tonight? Tonight Iron Ridge owns the fucking world.

I break free of the celebration, spinning on my skates in a slow arc until I'm facing the corporate box again.

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.