Page 21 of Slap Shot Scandal
“You have any more good mascot ideas?” He interrupts my dirty thoughts and I clear my throat.
“I’m assuming Coastal Crabs isn’t going to work for you?”
“No, definitely not. Don’t think anyone on the team wants to be associated with crabs. For obvious reasons.”
I’m sure I turn bright red, a high-pitched giggle squeaking from my throat. Rearranging my face, I try to regain my totally professional, not-at-all flirty composure.
“Fine. So we’ve ruled out seahorses, barracuda, turtles, and crabs.” I list each animal, tapping the pads of my fingers one by one.
“Does the mascot have to be marine life? Can’t we be something that sounds cool, like the Storm or the Cyclones?”
“An animal is memorable, though. Easy to brand for merch.”
He huffs out a breath, raking a hand through his dark hair. “Fine. We’ll keep thinking then.”
The cabin lights dim and the engines roar to life, the floor vibrating. I grip the armrest between us as the pilot advises everyone to buckle up for takeoff. Weston reaches over and clicks his seatbelt into place, then leans back into the leather. Relaxed and calm.
Unlike me, my insides knotting and twisting like a soft pretzel from a Central Park vendor. I’ve never been a huge fan of flying and somehow, the private plane feels worse than commercial. Smaller and more likely to crash.
The plane begins to taxi and we pick up speed at an alarming rate. I focus on breathing in and out. Weston cuts his eyes at me.
“You okay over there, Hurricane? You sound like you’re having an asthma attack.” His lips curve up slightly at the corners and I attempt a glower, although I’m very busy panicking about dying at the moment.
“I’m fine,” I wheeze, in between breaths. “Maybe a touch nervous.”
“Ah, she does have a weakness. So you can handle a room full of vicious reporters, but a little bit of gravity defying is too much?” His eyes twinkle, and I grimace as we lift off the runway.
“I suppose you’re going to use this against me at some point in time?” I shoot back, already worrying about how he’s going to spin this.
“Never. Just like you can’t hold it against me that I’m terrified of moths.”
“Moths? They don’t do anything but fly around.”
“I know. But you never know where those creepy things are going to land and they’re all dusty, like they just escaped from a crypt or something. Look…” He points out the window at the fluffy white clouds rolling by. We’re already airborne, and I didn’t have a panic attack.
“Wow. Thanks. For distracting me.” I shoot him a begrudging look of gratitude, surprised at how decent he’s being.
Not making that professional distance thing any easier.
The foursome stays at the front of the plane, partially hidden behind a half privacy screen. Which leaves me and Weston here in the back, the only other people on board besides the pilots and flight attendant. And now that we’re soaring high above the clouds, I’m hyperaware of him.
The casual way he stretches out in his seat, commanding space. The easy in-and-out of his breath, each exhale winding his intoxicating scent around me. The heat shimmering off his body, lighting me up inside.
Distracting me.
“Would you care for a beverage?” The flight attendant glances from me to Weston.
“I’ll have a water,” Weston says.
“Still or sparkling?” She bats her thick fringe of lashes at him, and a flash of irritation rips through me. I quickly shove it away. So what if she’s flirting with him?
I don’t even like the guy.
Besides, I’m sure he lands more than his fair share of women, like most other pro athletes.
“Still would be great, thanks.” He’s polite, but doesn’t even look twice at her.
Interesting. And again, unexpected.
