The Captain Claim

One

LILA

I was shoving files into my bag when the office clock blinked 6:12 p.m., and I froze for a second, like maybe if I stared hard enough, it would roll back five minutes and pretend I wasn't late.

"s**t," I muttered.

The championship game had started at six.

I stood too fast and nearly knocked over the framed photo on my desk. It wobbled dangerously, and I caught it just in time, my fingers brushing against the velvet box I'd tucked behind it. Trisha's birthday bracelet. Custom-made, thin gold chain with tiny diamonds spaced like they were floating. I'd spent weeks arguing with myself before buying it, calculating how many installments I could survive without skipping meals.

She was turning twenty tomorrow.

Twenty years old, and I still remember braiding her hair before middle school, threatening boys who looked at her too long. Now she wore diamond studs and smiled like she knew something the rest of us didn't.

I shoved the box deeper into my bag and ran.

The closer I got to Silvercrest Arena, the louder everything became, like the whole campus had plugged itself into one socket and the air was crackling with it. The parking lot was chaos—blue and white jerseys everywhere, people chanting and laughing, already drunk on possibility. Hockey season had nearly broken them this year with torn ligaments and suspensions, those awful overtime losses where you could see hope drain out of the stands in real time.

Tonight was the final.

Ethan's final.

I squeezed through the turnstiles just as the crowd roared so loud the concrete under my feet seemed to vibrate. The ice gleamed under the lights, too bright to look at for long, and it smelled like popcorn and cold metal and sweat. I climbed the steps and scanned the rink until I found number 15.

Ethan Cole.

Star forward, one of Silvercrest's golden boys, and my fiancé.

He moved as he belonged there, fast without looking rushed, all sharp edges and clean turns and complete control. His blond hair peeked from beneath his helmet as he pivoted around a defender, with his stick low, and his eyes locked in. When he played like that, I forgot everything else—the arguments, the distance, the way he insisted our relationship stay quiet because he said it was protection, said publicity ruined things.

The scoreboard flashed 2–2.

Final minute.

The arena felt like it was holding its breath, and then the puck slid toward center ice as Callum Reid intercepted it with brutal precision. I knew Callum. Even if it was from a distance and through Ethan’s own words. He was the team’s captain, assist king, and most importantly, the campus’s menace. He cut past two defenders like they were cones at practice.

"Go!" I screamed, not even sure if I was yelling at him or the universe.

Ethan skated into position and the pass landed perfectly on his stick. With one smooth motion and no hesitation, He shot.

The puck slammed into the net.

For half a second, there was silence, like reality needed to catch up, and then the arena exploded. People grabbed each other, beer sprayed into the air, and the buzzer blared. I was screaming before I realized it, my throat burning.

We won! We were the champions.

The team flooded the ice, and Ethan ripped off his helmet, laughing, breath fogging in the cold air. Callum tackled him from the side, and cameras swarmed, and it felt cinematic, like one of those slow-motion sports commercials.

Then the jumbotron flickered.

A graphic burst across the screen in bold letters.

SILVERCREST'S POWER COUPLE.

My stomach dipped so hard I actually grabbed the railing in front of me.

The camera cut to Ethan at center ice, and then it shifted to the stands. To Trisha.

She stood two sections over, golden hair shining under the arena lights, smiling at the camera like she'd practiced that exact expression in a mirror.

I froze.

Why was she—

Before the thought finished forming, Ethan skated toward the boards, toward her section, and the noise grew louder, almost hysterical. The jumbotron zoomed in tighter. Ethan reached over the barrier, gloved hands gripping the top.

And he pulled her in.

He kissed her.

That was not a confused peck or an awkward misfire. He kissed her like it was expected, like it belonged there.

The words POWER COUPLE flashed again.

Something inside my chest caved in, and the sound around me drained out, turning into static. My hands went numb. The velvet box slipped from my fingers and hit the concrete at my feet with a soft, useless thud.

Trisha smiled into the kiss like she had been waiting for it.

Ethan didn't hesitate.

The camera lingered.

Everyone saw.

Everyone.

The noise rushed back all at once, and it felt like being shoved underwater. I moved without thinking, pushing through the stands, ignoring the annoyed protests as I shoved past knees and spilled drinks. My chest burned, my vision blurred, and I kept repeating one thought.

The Locker room.

That was where he would go.

I ran down the corridor, heels slamming against concrete, and security tried to block the entrance, but I didn't slow down.

"I'm with Ethan Cole," I snapped, and the authority in my voice surprised even me.

They hesitated, and that was enough.

The hallway smelled like sweat, jockstraps, and rubber. Laughter echoed from inside, with the music blasting, and the players shouting over each other. I stepped into the locker room, and the celebration hit me full force. Towels were flying en masse, someone was spraying something fizzy, and the floor was wet. Very wet.

I, however, paid that no mind.

There he was.

Ethan stood near his locker, jersey half off, flushed and glowing.

Trisha stood in front of him, too close, her hand resting on his bare chest like it had always belonged there.

"Hey," he murmured to her. "Maybe not here."

She laughed softly. "Relax. Everyone thinks we're perfect together."

My hands started shaking before I even opened my mouth.

"Perfect?" My voice cracked through the room.

Everything stopped. Literally. The music cut, and even conversations died mid-sentence.

Trisha turned slowly, and she didn't look shocked. She looked annoyed.

"Oh, you made it," she said flatly.

That was also when Ethan's head snapped up, his eyes widening as they met mine. "Lila?" His voice cracked. "Oh god, Lila, I can explain-"

"Explain?" I spat the word out, tasting bile. "Explain how you're kissing my sister?"

Trisha turned, her face a mask of cool indifference. "Oh, calm down, Lila. You're making a scene."

"A scene?" I laughed, the sound harsh and foreign to my own ears. "You're right, how silly of me to be upset about my boyfriend and my sister-"

Ethan took a step toward me. "It's not what you think."

I stared at him. "Because from where I was, it looked exactly like my fiancé kissing my sister on live camera."

Players shifted awkwardly, and a few grabbed their things and slipped out.

Trisha crossed her arms. "You're overreacting."

I felt something hot rise in my throat. "They called you Silvercrest's power couple."

Ethan dragged a hand through his hair. "It was for publicity. The team's PR thought—"

"Publicity?" I choked. "You're engaged to me."

Trisha's jaw tightened, and she half laughed. "That engagement was always temporary."

The room tilted slightly, and I blinked. "What?"