Page 26 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

The weeks since Charleston have settled into a pattern. Dakota texts in the morning, usually something flirty that makes me smile despite myself. I respond during lunch breaks. He calls late at night after games or practices. We talk randomness—his teammates' antics, my frustration with outdated weather models, how neither of us can cook worth a damn.

What we don't talk about: whatever this is between us, whether it's sustainable, or if the pull I feel toward him is stronger than the gravitational force of my career.

My screen blinks with an incoming call—not Dakota, but Director Simmons. I straighten automatically, clearing my throat before answering.

"Baker here."

"Harmony, glad I caught you. Need your eyes on this developing system. Models are showing conflicting outcomes."

I tab over to the radar data. "I'm looking at it now, sir. There's an unusual temperature gradient forming along the frontal boundary. I'd give it a sixty percent chance of intensification within the next twelve hours."

"That's what I thought too." His voice shifts, the official tone softening slightly. "Listen, there's something else I wanted to discuss with you. Got a minute?"

My stomach tightens. "Of course."

"The Advanced Prediction Initiative at NOAA headquarters is looking for a lead researcher. Your work on the tornado prediction model caught their attention." He pauses. "They specifically asked for you, Baker."

I’m shocked. The equipment is cutting-edge, the meteorological equivalent of NASA for weather nerds like me. It's the kind of opportunity that comes once in a career.

"That's... unexpected." My voice sounds distant to my own ears.

"They'd need you to relocate to D.C. Six-month commitment initially, likely extending to permanent if the project succeeds." He clears his throat. "Which, with you on board, it would."

My eyes drift to my phone, to Dakota's grinning face still lighting up the screen. D.C. is even farther from Charleston than Oklahoma.

"When would they need an answer?" I ask.

"A month. Take some time to think about it. Harmony—" his voice becomes serious, "—this is the kind of opportunity most meteorologists only dream about."

After we hang up, I sit motionless, staring out the window at the gathering clouds. The storm system I've been monitoring seems suddenly insignificant compared to the one brewing in my personal life.

My phone buzzes.

Dakota:Thinking about you. Game tonight. Wish you could be there.

I type and delete three different responses before settling on what to send.

Me:Good luck. I'll be watching.

The truth is, I've watched every game I can. Sometimes I mute the sound and run the forecasting models in the background, splitting my attention.

By six o'clock, I've finished the projections and am running a secondary analysis just to keep my mind occupied. The office has emptied out. I should go home, turn on the game, eat something besides the granola bar I had at noon, maybe even sleep before Dakota calls after his game.

Instead, I dial Marina.

"Well, if it isn't the weather witch herself," she answers on the second ring. "I was beginning to think you'd been carried off by a tornado."

"That would solve some problems," I mutter, leaning back in my chair.

"Whoa. That sounds ominous. What's up?"

I explain about the D.C. offer, words tumbling out faster than I can organize them. Marina listens without interrupting.

"So basically," she says when I finally pause for breath, "you've been offered your dream job, but you're hesitating because of Sexy Hockey Boy."

I wince. "When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous."

"Not ridiculous. Human." She sighs, and I can picture her curling up on her couch. "Look, I've known you for what, six years now? In all that time, I've never seen you get this twisted up over a guy."

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