Page 41 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

We disentangle ourselves, the awkwardness returning now that the passion has ebbed. Harmony grabs tissues from somewhere – again, always prepared – and we clean up as best we can. The storm has lessened slightly, though rain still drums steadily on the roof.

We sit side by side now, naked and slightly damp, her head on my shoulder. It's the most vulnerable I've felt with anyone, and it has nothing to do with being naked. It has everything to do with the words we just exchanged.

"So," she says after a while, her voice small against my skin. "I guess we should talk about what this means."

"Us being in love? Yeah, probably a good idea."

She shifts to look at me. "I got a job offer. From the National Hurricane Center in Miami."

My heart does a weird stutter-step. "Miami? That's... not Charleston."

"No," she agrees. "It's not."

I let this sink in. Harmony in Miami. Me in Charleston. Hundreds of miles between us. My first instinct is fear, followed quickly by the urge to ask her not to go. To stay here, with me. The Dakota Miles of old – hell, the Dakota Miles of a month ago – would have done exactly that.

But I look at her face, those green eyes that light up when she talks about weather patterns, that brilliant mind that can predict the path of a storm before it forms, and I know I can't ask her to dim her light for me.

"Tell me about it," I say instead. "The job."

Her eyes widen slightly, like she's surprised I didn't immediately try to talk her out of it. Then she straightens, excitement creeping into her voice.

"It's incredible, Dakota. I'd be working with the best in the field, developing new models for hurricane prediction. The kind of work that could literally save lives." Her hands move animatedly as she speaks. "It's everything I've worked toward."

"When do they need an answer?"

"By the end of the month." She bites her lip. "I haven't said yes because... well, because of you. Because of us."

I take her hand, running my thumb over her knuckles. "Do you want the job?"

"Yes," she admits. "But I want you too."

I let out a slow breath. "So take the job."

"But–"

"No buts." I squeeze her hand. "Harmony, I've watched you geek out over weather maps and storm patterns. I've seen how passionate you are about your work. I would never forgive myself if I was the reason you passed up your dream job."

She searches my face. "What about us?"

"We'll make it work. Miami's what, an hour flight from Charleston? I have days off. You'll have weekends. There's FaceTime and texting and all that shit." I shrug like it's simple, even though the thought of not seeing her every day makes my chest ache. "The season only lasts part of the year anyway."

"Long-distance relationships are statistically challenging," she says, ever the analyst.

"Good thing we're not statistics." I pull her closer. "Look, I'm not saying it'll be easy. But I love you, and unless I'm reading this all wrong, you love me too. That's worth fighting for, isn't it?"

She nods slowly. "It is. But I still have concerns. You're used to having women available whenever you want. I know your reputation, Dakota."

The words sting, but only because they contain a kernel of truth. "That was before you. I haven't been with anyone else since our first date."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously? That's like... two months of monogamy."

"Don't sound so shocked," I grumble. "I'm capable of keeping it in my pants when it matters."

"And I matter?" Her voice is teasing, but I hear the genuine question underneath.

"More than anything," I say honestly. "More than hockey. More than my carefully cultivated reputation as a fuck boy."

She laughs at that, the sound brightening the car's interior more than any lightning flash. Outside, I notice the rain has eased to a gentle patter.

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