Page 13 of Slap Shot Scandal
“I was thinking. I do my best work with my eyes closed.” I open the folder and grab a pen, pretending to jot down an idea.
“Uh-huh.” He pulls out the chair directly opposite mine, sinking down like a lithe, grouchy tiger.
Dammit.
The last thing I want to do is stare at his stupidly gorgeous face scowling at me, yet here I am. Doing exactly that.
Noticing his high cheekbones, the curve of his lips, the straight nose with a scar across the bridge. The tinycrinkles around his eyes, actual physical evidence the man does have an emotion other than pissed AF.
My pulse races faster and heat floods through me, palms sweaty as we face off.
“So—what’s the ‘big plan’?” He places heavy sarcasm on the words and the low simmer in my belly bubbles to anger.
Taking a deep breath, I work hard to keep my composure. One of us needs to be professional here. Guess it’s going to be me.
“Listen, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I understand you’re upset about the relocation, and I get it. Honestly, I’m not thrilled about moving either. But I do believe it’s the best thing for the team.”
“I don’t.” He sits back, folding his arms across his broad chest. Muscular arms, complete with sexy man veins popping on his forearms. My belly flip-flops and my mouth goes dry.
Why does this man have such an effect on me?He’s the last person on the planet I want to be talking to right now. Well, besides my father.
I swallow with effort and forge ahead.
“Here’s the outline. Read it over and then tell me you disagree.” I pull the five-page plan from the folder and shove it across the table at him, our fingertips brushing as he takes the paper.
Fuck me.
A ripple of electricity zings from my fingers all the way up my arm. A hot bolt of desire I definitely should not be feeling. Not now, not ever.
His grip tightens on the paper, those forearm muscles tensing slightly.
Am I imagining things or did his breathing pick up for a quick second?
Ducking his head, he studies the carefully crafted words I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours perfecting.
Tick, tick, tick.
I glance at my phone, but in reality I’m gauging his reaction, watching for micro cues. A lifted brow, a furrow. Any sign in either direction.
But the man’s infuriatingly neutral.
Fucker.
Without a word, he slides the paper back across the table at me.
“You read the whole thing already?” My voice tips up in disbelief.
“Yeah, I did. The plan sucks.”
Just like Dad.
The instant dismissal, the condescending tone. I’ve heard this exact same energy from my father a thousand times.“You don’t understand hockey culture, Harbs. What it takes to win.”
Well, I do know what builds dynasty-level team loyalty and a rabid fanbase. Time to show Captain Steele how three-peat energy is built.
“What, specifically, are you opposed to?”
“The whole damn thing. The move. Changing the team name. Your transparent attempts to ingratiate us with the community through mandatory charity events.” He lifts his fingers one by one, ticking off every idea.
