Page 6 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

The words hang in the air, shocking in their casualness. I blink, certain I've misheard him.

"Your... place?" Marina echoes, her eyebrows shooting up.

"Yeah, I've got plenty of room," Dakota says, gesturing towards his beach house. "There’re couple of spare bedrooms. You'd be doing me a favor, honestly. It gets a little lonely rattling around in there with my roommate who is gone most of the time."

I can feel Marina's eyes on me, practically vibrating with excitement. But my mind is already racing through all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

"That's... very generous," I begin cautiously, "but we couldn't possibly impose—"

"It's no imposition," Dakota interrupts. "Consider it neighborly hospitality. Besides, it's not like there are many other options right now, right?"

He's got a point there. I glance at Marina, who's nodding.

"Harmony," she says, her voice low. "It does beat sleeping in the car."

I chew my lip, weighing our options. On one hand, staying with a stranger – an incredibly attractive stranger at that – seems foolish and potentially dangerous. On the other hand, the alternative is spending the night in our rental car or driving hours to find some place to stay in the middle of the night.

"I promise I'm not an axe murderer," Dakota adds with a playful grin, as if reading my thoughts. "You can even lock your bedroom doors if it makes you feel safer."

“Well, he is a professional athlete. I'm pretty sure the Renegades would notice if he started offing fans,” Marina says matter-of-factly.

"Alright," I say, letting out a long breath. "If you're sure it's not too much trouble..."

"Not at all," Dakota says, looking genuinely pleased. "Grab your bags and follow me. I'll give you the grand tour."

As we trudge through the sand, our suitcases bumping along behind us, I think about how this turn of events has affected our vacation. Less than an hour ago, we were settling into our rental. Now we're following a professional hockey player – a stranger – to his beach house.

"So, Dakota," Marina pipes up, her voice pitched just a little too high with forced casualness. "Do you often invite stranded tourists to stay with you?"

He laughs. "Can't say that I do. But then again, I don't often come across such charming company in need of rescue."

I roll my eyes at the line, but there is a little thrill that runs through me as my lower lip slips between my teeth deep in thought.

The pros of staying with Dakota Miles—shelter, safety, proximity to beaches that are practically calling my name—tally up nicely. Then there's the con, singular and massive: he's a sexy as hell stranger who probably has a different girl here every night. Let's not forget, the man is a Charleston Renegade; they're known for their... scoring abilities.

"Harmony, hold up a minute, we need to talk." Marina's voice snaps me out of my internal debate.

"Will you excuse us for a second?" She doesn't wait for Dakota's reply, already tugging me by the elbow toward a quieter spot back from Dakota’s house. When we're a few steps away, she turns to face me.

"Girl, don't think I haven't seen the way you've been looking at him. There's some serious heat there."

"Marina, it's not—"

"Save it," she interrupts with a wave of her hand. "I know you. You analyze everything to death. But sometimes, you just gotta jump in and see where the current takes you."

She’s known me a long time, and I know she's not just talking about tonight. This is about every tightly wound decision I've ever made, every chance at love I've dissected until it was nothing but a cold hypothesis.

"Look," she continues, her voice softening, "we stay at his place tonight, get a good night's sleep, and first thing tomorrow, we hunt for another spot. What's the worst that could happen?"

I open my mouth to list all the potential disasters, but instead, I exhale a laugh. Trust Marina to find the silver lining in crashing with a possible playboy.

"I know. I said we could do this already, but if this goes sideways, you owe me a lifetime supply of chocolate-covered espresso beans," I reply, shaking my head slightly.

"Deal!" Marina grins, linking her arm through mine. "Now let's go before Mr. Hockey thinks we ditched him."

We stride back to Dakota, who leans casually against a pillar on his front porch like a model in a beachwear ad, phone in hand—probably posting on social media about his good deed for the day.

"Welcome to Casa de Dakota," he says with a huge smile.

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