Page 37 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

I check my appearance in the rearview mirror. My curly auburn hair, usually tamed into submission, has begun to frizz in the humidity. My green eyes—the ones Dakota called "hurricane eyes" because they "swirl like storm systems"—are wide with anticipation and fear. I look exactly like what I am: a woman who's driven twelve hours straight through rain and uncertainty because staying away hurt worse than risking rejection.

The clock on my dashboard reads 10:17 PM. Players should be emerging soon. I grab my raincoat from the passenger seat, the practical, waterproof one Dakota once teased me about ("Does it come with a built-in barometer, Miss Green Eyes?"). The memory squeezes my heart as I pull it on and step out into the downpour.

The rain is immediate and overwhelming, soaking my jeans within seconds. I make a dash for the covered area near the players' exit, but I'm already drenched by the time I reach it. Water runs down my face, and I push my wet hair back, wondering if I've made a catastrophic error in judgment. Dakota "Lucky" Miles, Charleston's resident heartbreaker, probably moved on weeks ago. Probably didn't give me a second thought after I left.

The door to the players' exit suddenly bursts open. I straighten, heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape. But it'sjust a couple of players I don't recognize, heading for their cars with equipment bags slung over their shoulders. They nod at me politely, probably assuming I'm someone's girlfriend waiting in the rain. If only.

I check my phone again, scrolling through the post-game updates. According to social media, the team is celebrating their third straight win. Maybe Dakota's not even coming out this way. Maybe he's already—

The door flies open again, this time with such force it bangs against the wall. And there he is—Dakota Miles in rumpled street clothes, his damp brown hair pushed back from his forehead, a duffel bag clutched in one hand and his phone in the other. He's moving fast, head down against the rain, not seeing me as he strides purposefully toward the parking lot.

I step forward, my mouth opening to call his name, but the words dissolve as he plows directly into me. His solid chest collides with mine, sending me staggering backward. His quick reflexes save me from falling—one strong arm snaking around my waist, steadying me against him.

"Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't—" He starts apologizing before he even looks at who he's hit. When his hazel eyes lock onto mine, the recognition hits him like a physical blow. "Harmony?"

My name on his lips sends a current through me more powerful than the lightning that flashes overhead. "Dakota."

We're frozen like that, him half-holding me in the rain, water streaming down our faces. His expression cycles rapidly through shock, confusion, and something else I can't quite read.

"What are you—how did you—" He stammers, then shakes his head as if to clear it. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, breathless. "I was waiting for you."

His arm is still around me, his fingers pressing into the small of my back. I can feel the heat of him even through my wet raincoat. He doesn't move away.

"I was just heading to the airport," he says, his eyes never leaving my face. "I was going to fly to Oklahoma. To you."

The words hit me like another collision. "You were coming to find me?"

A crack of thunder punctuates the moment, making me jump slightly. His arm tightens around me reflexively.

"I couldn't do it anymore, Harmony. I couldn't pretend that I was okay with how we left things. With letting you go." His voice drops lower, nearly drowned by the hammering rain. "I've been a mess. Ask anyone on the team. Ask Kaleb—he told me I was playing like someone stole my soul."

I swallow hard, blinking raindrops from my lashes. "I've been a mess too."

A small, hopeful smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I place my palm against his chest, feeling his heart race under my fingers. "That's why I'm here. I was tracking the hurricane, watching it head straight for Charleston, for you, and all I could think was—"

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, cutting me off.

At the same moment, I say, "I was wrong."

We both stop, startled by the simultaneous confessions. A laugh bubbles up from my chest, surprising me with its lightness.

"You go first," I offer.

Dakota shakes his head, raindrops flying from his hair. "No, you. Please."

I take a deep breath. This is it. The moment I drove through three states and a tropical storm system for. "I was wrong, Dakota. About everything. I told myself that your life was too unpredictable for me, that someone who lives for routine and data couldn't possibly fit with someone who thrives on spontaneity and—"

"And sleeping with half of Charleston?" His voice is self-deprecating, but there's a vulnerability in his eyes that makes my heart ache.

"Your past doesn't scare me," I say firmly. "What scared me was how much I felt for you after such a short time. It was like... like a weather system I couldn't predict. And instead of embracing the unknown, I ran from it. Back to my safe, controllable life in Oklahoma."

"And how's that working out for you?" There's no mockery in his question, just genuine curiosity.

"Terrible." I can't help but laugh at the understatement. "I miss you. I miss your stupid hockey superstitions and the way you sing in the shower and how you ask me endless questions about barometric pressure just to watch me get excited about weather patterns."

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