Page 31 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

I throw my phone onto the passenger seat and start driving, not sure where I'm going, just knowing I need to be anywhere but here, sitting in an empty parking lot with the hollow feeling in my chest.

Chapter 17-Harmony

The numbers on my monitor blur together after sixteen straight hours of staring at weather patterns. I blink hard, trying to refocus, but my eyes sting with fatigue—or maybe it's the remnants of tears I refuse to acknowledge. The radar shows a low-pressure system developing off the Carolina coast, intensifying faster than the models predicted. Unpredictable. Just like him. Just like the way Dakota Miles smiled at me over Facetime three days ago before telling me it was over.

"Harmony, you should go home." My colleague pokes his head over my cubicle wall, concern etched across his face. "That's three shifts back-to-back."

"I'm fine," I say, not looking up from my screen. "This system is developing unusual characteristics. The wind shear patterns are—"

"Someone else can monitor it. We have a whole team for that."

I shake my head. "I need to track this."

What I don't say: I need the distraction. I need the numbers and data and patterns to fill my head so there's no room for replaying Dakota's last text.

My colleague sighs and retreats. Another notification pops up on my screen—the storm system is intensifying rapidly, barometric pressure dropping faster than expected. The data shows it tracking toward Charleston. Toward him.

I zoom in on the radar, fingers flying across the keyboard as I pull up additional models. The system has already been upgraded to a tropical storm, and it's organizing in a way that suggests further strengthening. Charleston isn't prepared for this—their local forecasts are still treating it as a moderate rain event.

I ignore it and pull up the satellite imagery. The storm looks like a tightly coiled spring, ready to unload its energy. My hand hovers over the phone. I should call the Charleston office, alert them to my observations. It's protocol.

Instead, I grab my bag.

"Taking a break?" Another colleague asks as I stand.

"Yeah."

I walk out of the National Weather Service office in Norman with purpose. In my car—a reliable Subaru Outback that's weathered its share of Oklahoma storms—I open my weather app and check the latest updates. The storm system continues its alarming organization.

My fingers grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. The rational part of my brain says to call it in, follow procedure. The irrational part—the part Dakota Miles woke up when he kissed me for the first time—wants to drive straight into the storm.

For once, the irrational part wins.

I stop at my apartment only long enough to throw essentials into a duffel bag: clothes, toiletries, phone charger. Almost as an afterthought, I grab my professional equipment—handheld anemometer, barometer, and the tablet with my proprietary forecasting algorithms. If anyone asks, this is a professional storm chase. Nothing to do with a hockey player with hazel eyes.

The digital clock on my dashboard reads 9:17 PM as I merge onto I-40 East. According to my calculations, I can reach Charleston in about eighteen hours. The storm will make landfall around then. Perfect timing.

"This is nuts," I mutter to myself as the lights of Norman recede in my rearview mirror. "Completely nuts."

But I don't turn around.

Rain starts three hours into my drive, just light sprinkles at first. I turn on the radio, flipping past stations until I find weather updates. They're still underplaying the system's strength. Amateurs.

My phone rings—my boss. I send it to voicemail. Then my mother calls. Then my boss again. I silence the phone and toss it onto the passenger seat.

The rain intensifies as I cross into Arkansas. My windshield wipers struggle to keep up, and I reduce my speed. Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating towering cumulonimbus clouds.

Dakota's face flashes in my mind. The day he took Marina and I to his favorite spot. He’d watched me, making me feel like I was someone worth paying attention to.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. Stupid, stupid, stupid to let a professional hockey player with a playboy reputation get under my skin. I'd known better. I'd read the scouting report, so to speak. Dakota "Lucky" Miles, Renegades resident heartbreaker. And still, I'd fallen.

A crack of thunder so loud it shakes my car jolts me back to the present. The rain is coming down in sheets now, reducingvisibility to mere feet. I need to pull over, wait it out. Even with my knowledge of storm systems, this is getting dangerous.

I ease onto the shoulder, hazard lights blinking feebly against the downpour. On my phone, I pull up the radar. I'm driving right into the outer bands of the system. It's intensified beyond even my predictions, now officially a Category 1 hurricane making its way up the coast.

A flash flood warning pops up on my screen. I scan the topography around me—I'm in a low-lying area. Not safe to stay here.

Back on the road, I navigate carefully, using my knowledge of storm systems to choose the safest route. East is dangerous—that's where the storm's eye is heading. North takes me too far off course. South... south could work. I can skirt the worst of it, then approach Charleston from below.

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