Page 27 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

"I'm not twisted up," I protest weakly.

"Your voice goes up half an octave every time you mention him. You've watched hockey games, Harmony. You hate sports."

"I don't hate sports. I just find the statistical analysis more interesting than the actual gameplay."

"My point exactly," Marina says. "This thing with Dakota isn't nothing. But neither is D.C.."

I press my fingers to my temples. "What would you do?"

"I'd talk to him," she says simply. "Tell him about the offer, see how he reacts. His response will tell you a lot about whether this thing has legs."

"What if it doesn't?"

"Then you take the job and throw yourself into saving lives with your weather wizardry. And I come visit you in D.C. and we get drunk on overpriced cocktails while plotting how to save the planet from climate doom."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It's not, but keeping him in the dark won't make it any easier."

After we hang up, I stare at Dakota's contact photo for a long minute. It's not even a good picture—just him making a ridiculous face during our night at the beach bonfire. There's something so alive in his expression, so present in the moment. The opposite of how I usually operate, always looking ahead.

My fingers hover over the call button, but I stop when a notification pops up from the weather alert system. The storm system has intensified, exactly as I predicted. I should feel satisfied, but instead I just feel tired.

By the time I get home to my sparse apartment, it's after seven. I kick off my shoes, heat up a frozen dinner, and settle in front of my laptop to watch Dakota's game. The Renegades are playing well, and Dakota makes several impressive saves. The commentators praise his focus, his quick reflexes. I wonder if they can see what I see—the way his body language changes after each play, like he's looking for someone in the stands.

My phone rings just after eleven. Dakota's name lights up the screen.

"Hey," I answer, trying to sound casual.

"Miss Green Eyes." His voice is rough around the edges. "Did you see that save in the third period?"

"I did. Very impressive." I smile. "How's your knee?"

"Fine." He pauses. "Actually, it's sore as hell, but don't tell Coach."

"Your secret's safe with me."

"How about you? Save the world from any weather disasters today?"

I think about the D.C. offer, about what Marina said. About how this is the perfect moment to bring it up. "Just the usual. Tracking storms, making predictions."

"You sound tired." His voice softens. "Long day?"

"Yeah." I swallow hard, feeling the weight of all the things I'm not saying. "Dakota, there's something—"

My phone beeps with another call. Director Simmons again.

"Sorry, I have to take this. Work emergency."

"Go save the world, sweetheart. Call me back?"

"I will," I promise, but I already know I won't—not tonight, not about this.

The director's call is brief but urgent—the storm system has shifted, threatening coastal communities sooner than expected. I spend the next three hours coordinating with emergency management, refining models, making sure warnings go out. By the time I'm done, it's well past two in the morning, and my opportunity for a hard conversation with Dakota has slipped away.

I text him instead.

Me:Sorry about earlier. Work emergency. Storm system intensifying off the coast. Rain check on our chat?

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