Page 25 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

"Fuck it," I mutter, and lean across the console to kiss her.

She meets me halfway, her lips soft against mine, her free hand coming up to rest against my cheek. It's not frantic like our first kiss was, not desperate like some of the ones that followed. It's gentle, lingering, a question neither of us knows how to answer.

When we pull apart, her eyes shine with something that makes my chest ache.

"I'll call you when I land," she promises.

"I'll be waiting by the phone like a teenager," I joke, but we both know I mean it.

I get out to grab her suitcase from the trunk, then walk her to the entrance of the terminal. We stand there awkwardly,surrounded by strangers with their own stories and own goodbyes.

"So," I say, rocking back on my heels.

"So," she echoes.

"Have a safe flight. Call me when you land."

She nods. "I will." She hesitates, then adds, "The Charleston area is expected to have clear weather patterns for the next week. You should have good conditions for practice."

I laugh. "Only you would give me a weather report as a goodbye."

A small smile tugs at her lips. "It's what I do."

"One of the many things I..." I stop myself. Too much, too soon. "One of the many things I like about you."

Her eyes search mine, and I wonder if she caught my near-slip. "I'll miss you, Dakota Miles."

"I'll miss you too, Miss Green Eyes."

With one last kiss—quick, like she's afraid to linger—she takes her suitcase and walks through the automatic doors. I watch her check in at the counter, watch as she looks back at me with a small wave, watch until she disappears into the security line.

Then she's gone.

I stand there longer than I should, staring at the space where she was, feeling oddly hollow.

Finally, I turn and head back to my car. The Porsche feels emptier somehow without her in the passenger seat.

I drive slower on the way back, no rush to return to an empty house. The roads are familiar, but everything looks different somehow. I turn on the radio, flipping until I find something loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

It doesn't work.

By the time I pull into the driveway of the beach house, my head is a mess of conflicting emotions. Part of me—the part that's been Dakota "Lucky" Miles, ladies' man and commitment-phobe for as long as I can remember—is already telling me to shake it off, move on, find someone new to warm my bed tonight.

However a newer, unfamiliar part of me is already counting the days until the Renegades play in Tulsa.

Chapter 15-Harmony

I stare at the satellite imagery until my eyes burn, tracking the pressure system that's been building off the coast for three days. Numbers and wind patterns blur together on my screen which is usually comforting. Today though, each data point feels like it's plotting the growing distance between Dakota and me. Three weeks, four days, and approximately seven hours since I left Charleston—not that I'm counting. My phone sits silent beside my keyboard, our last text exchange still open.

"Miss Baker? The director wants these projections by four."

I blink away from the screen, nodding at my colleague. "Tell him I'm almost done."

When I'm alone again, my fingers hover over my phone. Dakota sent a picture last night—him in full hockey gear, a grin, sweat making his hair stick to his forehead.

Dakota:Miss those green eyes of yours.

I'd responded with a storm front photo and some joke about high pressure systems. Real smooth, Harmony.

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