Page 34 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

And in that calm, I have my epiphany. Clear as the brief patch of blue sky visible overhead.

Weather, like love, is unpredictable. We can study it, track it, try to understand its patterns—but in the end, it follows its own rules. The best we can do is prepare ourselves, make informed decisions, and sometimes, take a risk.

I've spent my life avoiding risks. Playing it safe. Using data and analysis to keep emotional storms at bay.

But some risks are worth taking.

Dakota Miles might break my heart again. The hurricane might trap me on a barrier island. Both are possibilities I can't control.

What I can control is my decision to chase the storm. To face the unpredictable head-on. To tell Dakota how I feel, even if he doesn't feel the same.

Because living in fear of emotional hurricanes isn't really living at all.

As I approach the causeway to Pawleys Island, I can see the water has indeed receded temporarily, though debris litters the road. It's passable—barely. The wind is starting to pick up again as the back end of the storm approaches.

I have maybe an hour before I'm trapped on the island.

I press the gas pedal and drive forward. Into the storm. Into uncertainty. Into possibility.

After all, I'm Harmony Baker, storm chaser. And today, I'm chasing more than just a hurricane.

Chapter 18-Dakota

I grip my stick tighter as I skate onto the ice, the roar of the crowd washing over me like a wave I can't quite ride. Playoff game three and I'm fucked six ways to Sunday – head not in the game, body going through the motions. Two nights of no sleep thinking about those green eyes, that sharp tongue, and the way Harmony Baker walked away from me like I was just another weather system passing through. The guys can tell something's off. Hell, I can tell something's off. The Charleston Renegades need Lucky Miles tonight, but all they've got is this hollow version of me wondering how I managed to screw up the one thing that actually mattered.

"Miles! Get your head in the game!" Coach bellows from the bench as I circle during warm-ups.

I nod, but the motion feels disconnected from my brain. The arena lights seem too bright tonight, the ice too slick, my gear too heavy. Everything's a little off-center, just like me.

Asher skates up beside me, bumping my shoulder. "You good, man?"

"Peachy," I mutter, twirling my stick in my hands.

"Bullshit," he says, but doesn't push. That's the thing about Ash – he knows when to back off. "Just remember, we need you tonight. Whatever's going on in that thick skull of yours, shelve it for three periods."

Easy for him to say. Elle's probably in the stands right now, watching him with those adoring eyes. Not all of us get the fairytale, bro.

The buzzer sounds. Game time.

First shift, and I'm already a step behind. Their center wins the face-off clean, sending the puck back to their defenseman who rifles a shot toward our net. I'm supposed to be blocking the lane, but my reaction time is molasses. The puck whistles past my ear, and only our goalie's quick glove keeps us from going down early.

"Lucky! Come on!" Ryder shouts as we reset.

Luck. What a joke of a nickname right now. Nothing lucky about the way I fumble the puck at the blue line five minutes in, creating a breakaway that puts us down 1-0. Nothing lucky about the way I drift out of position in our defensive zone, leaving a man wide open for a one-timer. 2-0.

My brain's a traitor, hijacked by a weather girl with storm-cloud eyes and a smile that hit me like lightning. I see her face when I blink, hear her laugh when the crowd roars, feel the ghost of her fingertips along my jaw telling me I'm not the man she thought I was.

"Miles! Bench!" Coach bellows after I miss another assignment.

I skate over, legs burning with shame more than exertion, and drop onto the bench. Coach doesn't even look at me, just stares at the ice like I'm not worth the oxygen it would take to chew me out. That hurts worse than any screaming ever could.

The first period ends 3-0, us getting absolutely dominated. The locker room is a funeral parlor. Guys with thousand-yard stares, silent except for the occasional curse or clink of equipment being adjusted.

Coach walks in, clipboard in hand, jaw clenched. He looks at all of us, then zeroes in on me.

"I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing, Miles, but it sure as hell isn't hockey," he says, voice low and dangerous. "You want to throw away your season, fine. But you're taking nineteen other guys down with you."

He turns to address the whole room, but his words are still aimed at me like heat-seeking missiles. "This is the playoffs, gentlemen. Everything you've worked for all season. Right now, ask yourselves if you're giving everything. If the answer's no, then why the hell are you even here?"

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