Page 12 of Slap Shot Scandal
Weston: Fine. Where and when?
Unknown number: 8 AM, headquarters
Weston: I’ll be there
Even if I won’t like it.
I dig deep, restraining myself from typing out that last part. Just to be on the safe side, though, I toss my cell back onto the counter.
“What’s wrong, Cap?” Callum’s low voice jolts me back to reality. “Is that Prince?”
I press my lips together, my pulse kicking up a notch, muscles tight with agitation.
It’s strictly aggravation with the situation. This has nothing to do with Harbor and those wide, hazel eyes she leveled at me in the conference room.
“No. It’s Harbor. Apparently, Prince wants to meet with the two of us tomorrow.”
“Oh, sounds important and official.” Bennett draws out the words, mocking.
“Fuck off, Benny. And I’ll report back as soon as I know anything.”
Bennett salutes me and Callum nods, every bit of tension still very much alive and well in my body, my muscles.
Whatever Prince and Harbor have planned for tomorrow, I’ll need to keep my guard up—eyes on the Cup, notthe beautiful PR professional with a talent for making my blood run hot.
She’s a walking complication.
And complications like that? They’re always the hardest to resist.
CHAPTER 4
HARBOR
I’m thirty minutes early for the strategy meeting, but I’ve already been awake for hours. I barely slept last night, between stressing over moving logistics, replaying the text exchange with my father, and freaking out about being in the same room as Weston Steele again.
Possibly sitting next to him, heat shimmering off those broad shoulders. Jaw tense, with a slight shadow of stubble. His deep blue eyes glaring at me, searing me all the way to my soul.
Stop, Harbor. Get it together.
I cannot—will not—get involved with the grumpy hockey star.
Personally, at least. Bad enough I have to deal with him professionally.
Besides, Weston Steele made it abundantly clear that he hates me. From my PR campaign to my sunshiney disposition. The man’s a walking, talking, seething block of ice.
Adding to my anxiety is my father’s voice echoing in my head:You’re not championship material, Harbor.
Well, today I get to prove that wrong. I understand what separates dynasty-winning hockey teams from one-season wonders, and Weston Steele’s about to learn that Hayes-level strategic thinking runs in the family.
I toss the manila file folder onto the conference table and sink down into a chair facing the door. The wall clock ticks loudly in the quiet space,tick, tick, tick.
Slow and rhythmic. Eyelids heavy, I lean back into the comfy seat, the conference room fading away.
“Prince paying you to sleep on the job?” A growly voice jolts me out of my trance.
Startled, I pop up, almost falling out of the rolling chair.
“I wasn’t sleeping.” I grip the edge of the seat for balance, heart pounding as I stare up at Weston. He pins his deep blue eyes on mine—even bluer against the navy of his fitted T-shirt—and it’s like I’m stuck in his forcefield. Paralyzed by his granite jawline, shadowed with a days’ worth of dark stubble. His hair’s still damp from his morning shower and his fresh, clean scent fills the room. He’s scowling, his lips set in a tight line. If he wasn’t so surly, I’d probably think he was sexy.
