Todos los capítulos de Claimed on Ice: Marked by the Rival Captain: Capítulo 121 - Capítulo 130

Dominic POVThe heavy oak doors of the league headquarters building closed with a sharp thud.Outside, rain smeared the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking downtown. Inside, thirty members of the Board of Governors sat along a horseshoe table, their dark suits neat, their faces tight with tension.Commissioner Vance sat at the head of the room, tapping his pen against a legal tablet.“Game 7 is set for eight o’clock tonight,” Vance declared, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. “Yet we have received three injunction filings from minority shareholders concerning player registry rules.”I stood at the far end of the table, my dark tailored suit buttoned, my broad shoulders squared. Across my collarbone, beneath my shirt, the mating bond hummed—a steady, warm pulse connecting my blood to Theo’s.Julian stood beside me, setting a black leather binder onto the wood.“The minority shareholders have no standing,” I said, my voice cutting clean through the low murmur in the room. “I

Theo POV Morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling glass, illuminating the quiet penthouse.I stood by the window, my right hand resting flat against my stomach. A soft, steady warmth radiated beneath my palm, a quiet reminder of the second life taking root inside me.For the first time, I allowed myself to imagine our family growing beyond the dreams we once shared.Dominic walked up from behind, his bare feet silent on the polished hardwood. He wrapped his broad arms around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest. He rested his chin on my shoulder, his warm breath fanning against my neck.“Liam is already wearing his little jersey,” Dominic murmured, his large hand coming down to cover mine over my stomach.“Is he still insisting on wearing his skate guards to breakfast?” I asked, a quiet laugh escaping my throat.“Chloe gave up ten minutes ago,” Dominic replied, his thumb stroking my knuckles. “He’s sitting at the island with his mini stick.”I leaned back into

Dominic POVForty seconds on the clock.My lungs burned cold. Sweat ran down my temple, stinging under the foam of my helmet strap. Down my chest, the dark navy Royals jersey clung to my pads, the white number 9 heavy against my back. Every muscle in my legs ached from the full length of Game 7, but the pain sat far below the surface, buried under the single focus of the next face-off.I dropped my center of gravity into the dot.Across the black rubber disk, Theo locked his stance. His light blue Titans jersey rose and fell in fast, shallow cycles, the white C stitched sharp over his chest, the number 17 prominent on his arms. Through the mating bond at my collarbone, I felt the steady thrum of his concentration. No fear. No hesitation. Just pure competitive fire matching my own.The crowd’s roar was a physical pressure, vibrating through the glass into the soles of my skates. Forty thousand people stood on their feet, waiting for the final sequence of the season.I adjusted my grip

Dominic POVThe noise in the arena didn’t just vanish; it felt like forty thousand people held their breath at the exact same instant, sucking the sound right out of the building.The scoreboard above center ice hummed in giant, glowing red digits: 00:12 — THIRD PERIOD. TITANS 3, ROYALS 3. Twelve seconds of time left to define an entire career, an eight-year journey, and a championship.The referee’s hand hung suspended over the red dot. The black rubber disc rested between his gloved thumb and forefinger, perfectly motionless over the chewed-up frost.Across the circle, Theo lowered his stance another inch. His long, athletic frame bent low into the red paint, his posture radiating pure power. His eyes weren't on the clock, and they weren't on my face. They were locked onto the referee’s hand with absolute, predatory focus. Through the mating bond at my collarbone, the steady thrum of his concentration hit my chest like a physical weight. No fear. No self-doubt. Just an unyielding det

Dominic POVTwo seconds on the clock. The entire series had come down to this single stretch of ice.Every shift, every hit, every quiet promise had led here.My skates dug into the chewed-up ice as I tracked the blue jersey ahead. On his back, the dark blue number 17 stood out sharply against the floodlights. The white C on his chest caught the glare of the arena as three of my defensemen closed in around him.Miller lunged from the left, extending his stick to seal the boards.Our second defenseman, Vance, dropped into a low knee block, taking away the low shot lane. The net was completely covered. The entire Royals defense was collapsing into a solid, impenetrable wall of dark navy jerseys.My chest heaved under my uniform, my white number 9 heavy across my shoulders. Sweat ran down the inside of my helmet and stung the corner of my eye, but I did not wipe it away. Every sense stayed locked on the man in light blue.I saw the trap forming. I saw the exact line where Miller’s stick