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Chapter Thirteen

Sophia

I should be strategizing for the most important interview of my career.

I should be preparing a bulletproof plan for corporate approval of something other than Blake's precious youth program.

I should be anywhere but here.

Natalie's hand is pressing into my back, herding me into Ridgeview Tavern as I try to forget about my phone buzzing at an alarmingly increasing rate in my bag.

Oh God. Why did he have to blow me a kiss? What the hell was he thinking?!

The bar is packed with hockey players, rowdy fans, and enough testosterone to make my ovaries file for an early retirement.

The place is electric.

Swear to God, the entire town has packed inside. Gray and green jerseys are everywhere, tables pushed together to accommodate the rowdy, half-drunk crowd. The thick scent in the air is moist with beer, wood polish and something deep-fried.

And at the center of it all?

Eli - the legendary Iron Wall himself - standing on a damn chair, leading the Icehawks' team chant at full, deafening volume.

His booming voice carries over the din, and even the most reserved fans are jumping to their feet to join in. The entire bar erupts, boots stomping, glasses slamming, voices booming in unison as Eli pumps his fists. The sheer force of the chant is rattling the fucking neon beer signs hanging over the bar it's that loud.

Beer sloshes from mugs, spilling onto the sticky floor, the volume absolutely unbelievable.

"I can practically feel the floor vibrating beneath my heels." Spit flies from my mouth and hits Natalie on the cheek as I try to raise my voice over the noise.

Natalie wipes her cheek with two fingers, grimacing. “Fantastic. Five seconds in and I’ve already been spat on.”

I wince. “Sorry, I—”

A guy in an Icehawks jersey barrels past us, his beer sloshing dangerously close to my coat. Natalie steps in front of me like a bodyguard.

“Alright, I take it back. The real danger here isn’t your saliva, it’s death by enthusiastic sports fan.”

“What is happening?” I hiss, ducking as a rogue napkin flutters through the air like a lost pigeon.

Someone, who I can only assume is not a sober person, has climbed onto the bar and is waving his jersey over his head like he’s conducting a symphony of chaos. A flat-screen above the bar replays the final goal behind him, and we all get the privilege of seeing the moment Blake winks at me and blows that stupid, cocky kiss all of again.

The crowd erupts as if it just happened again.

I die a little inside.

“Welcome to a Ridgeview victory party, babe.” Natalie smooths her hair, acting as if this is just another Thursday night in Iron Ridge. “You’re experiencing pure, unfiltered sports-induced insanity.”

At least none of them are on their phones. Perhaps no one will see the video ever again?

Then, a particularly aggressive chant erupts from a corner booth overflowing with what can only be described as massive, laughing hockey players. Icehawk players. Mugs clink. Shoulders shake. Laughter rumbles like a storm rolling through the room.

And then, I see him.

Blake, holding court in the corner booth like some kind of hockey God. His ash-blond hair is still damp from the post-game shower, and his fitted henley stretches across those ridiculous shoulders in a way that should be illegal.

"Oh God," I mutter, watching him throw his head back in laughter at something Logan says. "He's here."

Natalie follows my gaze and smirks. "Of course he's here. Where else would the captain be after a win?"

"Literally anywhere else?"

My stomach sinks, catching sight of Big Mike at the table too. Right beside Blake. Fuck. The interview. The youth program. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Is it too late to fake food poisoning?”

Natalie arches a brow. “Sweetheart, if you leave now, they will hunt you down and carry you back in like a human trophy.”

I swallow. “You’re exaggerating.”

A voice booms from across the room.

“THERE SHE IS!”

The entire bar turns.

Suddenly, the world around me erupts as my name rings out, bouncing off wooden beams and rattling endless empty beer mugs that gather on the nearby table.

I freeze, eyes darting toward the source of the call, heart doing a full gymnastics routine inside my chest.

"Eli! Stop that!"

The bar owner is perched on his damn throne-chair, one boot planted on the seat, grinning like he just won the lottery.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” he booms, holding up a shot glass like it’s the Holy Grail. “It’s a Ridgeview tradition to initiate new members of the Icehawks family! And after tonight’s game?” His smirk deepens, clearing amused at the kiss-blowing from his beloved captain. “I think we can all agree Miss Sophia Hart is one of us now!”

The crowd loses their damn minds.

Natalie claps, bouncing on her heels. “Oh, this is so much better than faking food poisoning.”

A tray of identical, menacing-looking shots appear in every corner of the bar, dark amber liquid swirling like the stuff of nightmares. I catch a whiff and immediately regret every life choice that led me here.

Eli raises his glass. “Captain’s Choice shots for everyone!”

A chant erupts - deep, thunderous, filled with hockey-sized enthusiasm.

Cap-tain’s Choice! Cap-tain’s Choice! Cap-tain's Choice!

Natalie, now my official bad influence, nudges me. “You have to do it. It's the official shot of the Icehawks.”

"Official shot?" I lift an eyebrow. “Do I really?”

She grins. “I mean, the alternative is explaining why you’re chickening out in front of two hundred rowdy hockey fans…”

Before I can form an argument, a new voice cuts through the chaos.

Blake.

Oh, for the love of—

I whip my head around just as he pushes off the corner booth, rising slow and deliberate like he has all the time in the world.

The room shifts. People part instinctively, clearing space like he’s the damn king of Iron Ridge. His eyes are locked on me, gray and stormy, and even with the chaos swirling around us, I swear I can feel his focus.

I ignore the full-body shiver his gaze sends through me.

“This is a terrible idea,” he mutters as he reaches us.

No. A terrible idea would be blowing me a kiss in front of a worldwide audience, you moron.

Eli snorts and slams back the shot in his hand. “Since when do you call the shots around here, Captain ?”

The crowd murmurs a taunting chorus of "Oooooo..." while Blake raises his gaze to meet Eli's, his expression radiating pure disinterest, as if this whole scene is just another tired rerun of a victory dance enjoyed one too many times in this bar.

"Last I checked," Eli drawls, leaning back in his chair with infuriating casualness. "This is my establishment. Which means I make the rules." He winks at me playfully. "And the rules say newbies drink."

A loud roar of approval erupts.

"Face it, son." Eli's eyes twinkle with mischief. "On the ice, you're the boss. In here? You're just another pretty face who can't hold his liquor."

The crowd erupts in oohs and laughter, and I find myself giggling despite my best efforts to maintain my professional composure. Blake's eyes snap to mine, and something dangerous flashes in those steel-gray depths.

"Something funny, Miss Hart?"

"Oh no," I say, holding up my hands. "Don't drag me into your little, manly power struggle."

"Too late." His lips curve into that smile that sends a slow, electric pulse straight through me. "Besides, I don't think you could handle it anyway."

The bar goes quiet. Even Eli leans forward, waiting.

Oh, it is on .

"Excuse me?" I step closer, tilting my chin up. "What exactly makes you think I can't handle your precious hockey shot?"

"Because corporate types like you usually prefer their drinks with little umbrellas," he says, voice dripping with challenge. "This isn't exactly a cosmopolitan, sweetheart ."

Without breaking eye contact, I reach for the nearest shot glass. The liquid sloshes ominously, and the smell alone makes my eyes water, but there's no way in hell I'm backing down now.

"Watch and learn, Captain ."

I throw back the shot in one smooth motion, and—

Holy hell . What is in this thing? It burns like liquid fire. Shit. I'm pretty sure I just grew chest hair.

I manage to keep my expression neutral as I slam the glass down on the bar and the crowd explodes.

“Yeahhhhhh! That’s how it’s done!” Eli whoops, slapping a member of the crowd on the back as he jumps down from the chair and moves behind the bar to fill more shot glasses, passing them around the room as everyone slams them back with jo

Blake doesn’t look impressed.

He looks pissed.

Thankfully, Natalie grabs my wrist, dragging me toward the bar like a woman on a mission.

“Come on, big shot. If you can handle that, you can handle a round of cocktails.”

Blake follows.

Of course he does.

I can feel him at my back, a solid wall of brooding disapproval, radiating entirely unnecessary amounts of heat directly behind me. Every time I shift, I brush against his chest, and either he’s deliberately inching closer, or I’m already feeling the effects of that hellfire shot.

The way my head is swirling, it's probably both.

Natalie flags down the bartender, her eyes gleaming. “Two Slapshot Specials, please.”

“Three,” I correct, feeling bold. And thirsty.

She grins, thrilled at my descent into madness. It's nice to forget the stress of Big Mike, but before I can bask in my small act of rebellion, Blake’s voice rumbles at my ear.

“Two is enough.”

I turn my head and oh . Big mistake .

He’s too close. Close enough that the scent of cedar and something darkly masculine wraps around me like a warm, forbidden blanket, triggering the very specific memory of waking up to the lingering scent of him the other morning.

Delicious.

I lift a brow, challenging the hard glare he gives me. “Are you policing my drink order now?”

His mouth tilts in that slow, smug way that makes me want to either kiss him or throw a drink in his face.

“Just looking out for you.”

Before I can reply, the bartender slides our cocktails across the counter. A bright pink liquid swirls in tall glasses, garnished with a single maraschino cherry and a bright green leaf of fresh mint.

I stare at the glass. "What in the Barbie Dreamhouse is this?"

Natalie snatches hers, lifting it high. “To the Icehawks! Victorious again!”

I clink my glass against hers and take a sip—sweet, fruity, with just enough of a kick to warm my throat.

“Ohhhh, my…" I murmur, going in for another big sip. "That's dangerously good.”

Blake exhales like a man trying to summon patience from the depths of his soul.

Natalie elbows me, waggling her brows. "Tastes like a mistake waiting to happen."

I smirk, swaying slightly as I brace a hand on the bar. The night blurs into warm, fuzzy laughter, one more round turning into just one more after that , the world spinning in a way that’s alarmingly enjoyable.

Then a sharp tug at my waist sends a shock of heat right through me.

I blink up and find Blake’s hand gripping my waist, holding me steady like it’s pure instinct.

His scowl is downright scalding. “Alright, that’s enough.”

“I’m fine.” I poke at his chest. Not my smartest move, considering it’s like prodding a slab of granite. "Come on, have a drink with us."

His jaw tightens. “You’re done.”

I lean in closer, batting my long lashes at him, looping a finger in the collar of his shirt, letting my voice drop just a little. " Please … for me."

His eyes flick to my mouth, and for a split second, I think I've won. The corner of his lips twitches, and a familiar heat flashes behind that stormy gaze.

Victory.

I smirk, already turning back to the bartender. “We’ll have—”

Blake reaches past me, his broad chest brushing against mine as he leans over the bar. “She’ll have half-strength from now on.”

My mouth falls open.

The bartender nods like this is entirely normal behavior, already reaching for a new bottle.

Natalie bursts into laughter beside me, actually doubling over, slapping the bar.

“Oh my God, you thought —” She gasps between cackles. “You really thought—” Another wheeze. “You could flirt your way out of it!”

I whip back to Blake, gaping like a goldfish. “You absolute menace.”

His smirk is pure, smug satisfaction. “Drink your watered-down cocktail, sweetheart. Then I'm taking you home."

I shove my glass toward Blake with unnecessary force, scowling as I push off the bar. “I don’t need you babysitting me, Maddox.”

Blake doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches me with that unreadable expression, the one that makes my stomach twist and my clit throb at the memory of that tongue and how it felt against my heat.

Natalie, already three drinks deep, sighs dramatically beside me. “Oh my God, just let the man take you home, babe. He’s obviously dying to.”

I whip my head toward her. “Excuse me?”

She grins, stirring her already half-finished drink with her straw. “Sweetheart, the man has been watching you like a security camera all night. Lap it up.”

Blake exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, looking like he’s on the verge of praying for patience.

“I’m not dying to do anything,” he mutters. “I just don’t feel like scraping you off the sidewalk when you inevitably trip over those damn heels.”

“Oh, well, thank you for your concern,” I bite out, yanking my coat off the chair. “And if I say no?”

He grins, slow and lazy, like he already knows he’s won.

“You won’t.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re so cocky.”

He leans in, just enough to make my pulse hiccup. “And you’re tipsy in a bar full of hockey fans who love you right now.” His lips twitch. “Think you’ll make it out without a victory lap?”

My stomach plummets. Because oh God. He’s right.

"Fine. Escort me home , Captain Overprotective. "

Blake doesn’t gloat. He doesn't dismiss it either. He just shrugs.

“Smart choice, sweetheart.”

And then, with zero warning, his hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the door, the crowd parting around us, murmuring and whispering as their beloved captain leaves with the girl from the viral video that has somehow turned me into their new favorite flavor.

I freeze the moment we step out of the bar.

Because his palm is warm. Big. Unfairly nice and comfortable against my back.

I don’t hate it.

And now, all I'm thinking is…

I can’t resist him any longer.