Page 57 of Slap Shot Scandal
“Thanks. Would you please excuse me for a second?”
“Sure, no problem.”
Without hesitation, I spin on my heel and search for the closest exit. I need fresh air, space from the pressure.
Pushing through a side door, I stumble into a dark alleyway. I lean back against the building and close my eyes, inhaling a deep breath of warm, salty air. The door clicks shut behind me and probably locks, but I don’t even care. The last thing I want to do is go back inside. I can’t think, can’t breathe this close to Weston. Let alone stand around and make small talk with his teammates and boss.
Fuck.What am I doing?
My entire job is anticipating PR crises and here I am, getting involved with a player on the very team I’m trying to save from scandal.
This is exactly what my dad predicted—the moment when personal feelings would override professional judgment. When discipline collapses and everything falls apart. Every criticism he’s ever made about me—about my focus, priorities, my choices in general—runs through my head and I’m spinning.
“Hey.”
I jump a foot in the air, eyes flying open as I whirl to face the deep voice I already recognize and respond to.
“We need to talk.” Weston steps closer, his heady masculine scent swirling around me and making me dizzy.
I shake my head, ignoring the quickening of my pulse and the flutter in my belly. “No, we don’t. What happened earlier…” I lick the corner of my lip, face flaming. “It can’t happen again. There’s too much on the line. For both of us.”
“Right.” Weston pins his steely gaze on me, the blue dark in the dim light. Desire rolls through me and my already shaky resolve wavers more.
“It’s too risky.” My voice is quiet and frankly, unconvincing, even to me.
“You’re right. It is.” He takes another step closer, and my breath hitches as heat shimmers between us.
As much as I want to lean in and have a repeat performance of this afternoon, I know what I have to do. For me, my job, for Weston and the team.
“Here.” I fish the folded printout from my pocket. “These are the interview questions for tomorrow. You don’t have to memorize anything. Just skim them tonight, so you’re not caught off-guard.”
Weston takes the paper, our fingers touching for the briefest of seconds. Sparks fly up my arm and I do my bestto ignore them and the accompanying jitters rocketing through me.
“The questions are mostly about the rebrand, the relocation, community outreach and your role as captain. Happy to help with anything you may need. Wording or whatever.”
He scans the folded sheet of paper, silence stretching between us. I force myself to stand still and not fill up the empty space with babbling, but it’s difficult. Being this close to him—his body inches from mine—and not touching him hurts.
I fold my arms across my chest, building a wall I know I can’t cross.
Won’t cross.
“This is a big deal. If the segment goes well, it could anchor the entire media rollout. Give us good press right from the get-go.”
“I get it, Harbor.” Weston shoves the paper into his pocket, his voice neutral.
I totally blew this, every part of it.
I swallow hard, my stomach sinking. I don’t want to push him away. Not really. I just don’t know how to hold him without dropping everything else.
“Don’t worry, Hurricane. I’ll play my part.” His tone is calm, controlled. All I can ask for.
“Just like you’re playing yours.” He shoots me one last hard stare, then walks away without a second glance.
The alley falls quiet, waves crashing in the distance.
But nothing drowns out the sound of him leaving.
Or the whisper in my head that sounds suspiciously like my sister:What if you’re protecting yourself right out of the best thing that’s ever happened to you?
