Page 20 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

The walk to the boardwalk is excruciating. Our shoulders brush occasionally, but Dakota keeps his hands shoved deepin his pockets. He's wearing his game-day expression—focused, distant, unreachable.

"Big game coming up, huh?" I venture, desperate to break the silence stretching between us.

"Yeah. Conference semifinals on Friday." His voice is flat, professional. The voice he probably uses for sports reporters, not for the woman he's been whispering filthy promises to all week.

"You'll do great." I sound like a fan, not someone who's had him inside me in ways that make me blush to remember in the morning.

He nods but doesn't elaborate. The boardwalk is waking up around us—joggers with their dogs, early tourists clutching maps, locals power-walking with the determination of people who've seen it all before. I find myself cataloging these details like I'm preparing a weather report. Mild morning temperatures, chance of emotional thunderstorms increasing throughout the day.

Caffeine Beach sits at the edge of the boardwalk. It's a local favorite that Dakota introduced me to on our second day together. The smell of freshly ground beans and warm pastry hits me as he holds the door open, one small courtesy that momentarily cracks his distant facade.

"The usual?" he asks, and I nod, grateful for this tiny thread of normalcy.

I find us a table by the window while Dakota orders. Two college-aged girls at the counter recognize him, their eyes widening as they nudge each other and giggle. Normally, this would amuse me—watching women react to him like he's some rare celestial event—but today it just underscores the reality I've been avoiding. Dakota Miles exists in a world of adoring fans, championship games, and a life rooted firmly in Charleston. My life is 900 miles away in Norman, with tornado warnings and radar systems that don't care about hockey playoffs or hazel eyes that change color depending on his mood.

"One almond milk latte with an extra shot," Dakota says, placing the mug in front of me. "And a chocolate croissant to share."

"Thanks." I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, studying the pattern the barista has created in the foam—a simple leaf that's already beginning to dissolve. Like us, I think, and then mentally kick myself for the melodrama.

Dakota sits across from me, his own black coffee steaming between his hands. His fingers tap against the side of the mug.

"So," he begins, and my stomach drops at his tone. "You head back tomorrow?"

"Yeah. My flight leaves at 11:20." I take a sip of my latte. "I have to be back at work on Monday. We're entering severe weather season, and the team needs all hands on deck."

He nods, taking a long drink of his coffee before responding. "The playoffs could take us through the end of May, if we make it all the way."

The unspoken implication hangs between us. Two months where our schedules and locations make any continuation of this—whatever this is—nearly impossible.

"That's assuming you make it to the finals," I say, attempting a teasing tone that falls flat.

His eyes finally meet mine, a flash of the old Dakota peeking through. "We'll make it."

"Such confidence." I manage a small smile. "Is that why they call you Lucky?"

"They call me Lucky because I am." He breaks off a piece of the croissant, flaky layers separating between his fingers. "At least on the ice."

Something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten. "And off the ice?"

Dakota's gaze drifts past me to the ocean. "That's more complicated."

I take another sip of my latte, buying time. I came to Charleston for a vacation with my bestie, not a vacation romance with a professional hockey player known for his aversion tocommitment. Yet here we are, dancing around what happens when fantasy collides with reality.

"We could try long-distance," I suggest, the words escaping before I can analyze their wisdom. "FaceTime, weekend visits when our schedules align."

His expression shifts, a cloud passing over the sun. "Harmony..." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Long-distance is a bitch. I've seen what it does to some of the guys on the team. All the missed calls, the fights over nothing, the jealousy when you can't be there for big moments."

"So you're saying it's not worth trying?" My voice comes out sharper than intended, the hurt bubbling up despite my best efforts.

Dakota breaks off another piece of croissant but doesn't eat it. "I'm saying I don't want to make promises I can't keep. The season gets crazy. There are road trips, media obligations, charity events. Some weeks I barely have time to sleep, let alone maintain a relationship with someone in another state."

The analytical part of my brain understands his logic. The statistical probability of success for a long-distance relationship between two career-focused individuals is undoubtedly low. But the part of me that's spent the last week wrapped in his sheets, laughing at his terrible jokes, and feeling more alive than I have in years isn't interested in statistics.

"You know what I do for a living, right?" I set my mug down with more force than necessary. "I predict things. Complicated, chaotic, atmospheric things. I look at data points and calculate probabilities for events that could destroy lives if I get them wrong."

He frowns, not following my point. "Yeah...?"

"So I understand uncertainty better than most people." I lean forward, lowering my voice. "But I also understand that some things are worth the risk, even when the forecast looks grim."

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