Page 96 of Slap Shot Scandal
“Yes?” I swivel to the woman, plastering a tight smile on my face and praying my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. “Are you with the youth league?”
A half-snort echoes loudly through the empty space. “Um, no. I’m looking for my father, Max Prince.”
“Oh. He’s inside the arena.” I point over my shoulder. “I’m Harbor Hayes, the PR consultant.”
“Victoria Prince. His daughter.” She offers her hand and I shake it politely, noticing she doesn’t bother checking out Weston at all.
Clearly not affected by hockey players.
I recognize her type immediately—sharp, polished, probably has an MBA from some impressive Ivy League school. She’s giving big city vibes all the way, making me feel underdressed in the team polo, jeans, and sneakers. The kind of professional woman who doesn’t mind takingup space, making tough decisions. Everything I’ve tried to be, but somehow she makes it look effortless.
“Well, I’ll let you two get back to whatever you were doing.” Her eyes cut from me to Weston, giving us both an appraising stare. “Nice to meet you, Harbor.”
She clicks her way into the arena, the door whooshing closed behind her.
“Oh my god, you don’t think she saw anything, do you?” I fan my face, trying to keep any hint of sweat at bay. I don’t have time to redo my makeup.
“Saw what? Us talking? Totally innocent. Also practical, seeing as how we’re interviewing together after the clinic. Don’t worry about her.” Weston brushes off the exchange like it’s nothing, but anxiety still pings through me.
“Do you know her? She didn’t even acknowledge you.”
He shrugs. “Met her once or twice. She has a real reputation for being an ice queen. Pun fully intended.”
I giggle. “The nickname fits. Wonder why she’s here?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Not my business.”
“Probably a good way to operate.”
The outside doors to the arena fly open again, and this time a flood of excited children pile into the building.
“That’s my cue. Gotta jet. Relax, Hurricane. You’ve got this.” He winks at me and jogs away to prepare for the clinic.
And just like that, he’s gone. Leaving me alone in a room full of kids and chaos, which has absolutely nothing on the storm raging inside my head.
I stand behind the glass, marveling at the magic of the youth hockey clinic.
Weston’s in his element, smiling and laughing with the kids, coaching them. I had nothing to worry about there—the man’s a natural.
He’s got ‘Future Coach’ written all over him.
And future daddy.
Oh my gosh.
Rule #3—no talk about the future.
So why in the hell did I feel myself ovulate just then, when Weston knelt down to the little boy’s level, coaching him on holding his stick?
Not good.
Every single rule’s in jeopardy—and that’s not on Weston.
It’s on me.
Because you want to say fuck the rules.
Be bold for once in your life.
