Page 18 of Slap Shot Scandal
I follow her direction as she lowers the microphone and addresses the crowd.
“We’re here today to unveil the new team name and location. Joining us is a man I’m sure you all recognize, team captain Weston Steele.” A loud echo of applause vibrates the wooden podium as I nod and wave at the sea of reporters. “Mr. Steele.”
Harbor steps to the side, slightly behind me, but still close enough I feel her body heat. Our arms almost touching, her presence is comforting, grounding me in this surreal moment.
“Good afternoon.” I adjust the microphone, screechy feedback jolting the crowd into silence.
Eager hands shoot up and Harbor points at the closest one, a reporter I vaguely recognize from past press conferences.
“Mr. Steele, what does the team think about the relocation? And do you know where in Florida you’re going?”
The question sits heavy on my conscience as I stare out into the crowd. When I took the position as team captain, I never imagined myself here, standing at this podium and lying straight into the camera.
I square my shoulders, doing my best to project confidence. Harbor and I practiced answering this question, but right now I can’t remember the exact words.
I wing it and lie. “The team’s excited for new opportunities, yeah.”
“So you’re totally sold on Florida? After playing your entire career here in New York?”
Heat flames my face and my mouth goes dry. I curl my fingers around the edges of the podium. “I’ll always have a place in my heart for New York, starting my career here. But looking ahead, the franchise’s future is Driftwood Cove, Florida.”
I barely manage to get the words out, every fiber in my body resistant to this move.
Another collective gasp, and the chatter starts up again. Harbor selects a new reporter waving her hand high in the air.
“After years in a big city, the team’s moving to a town no one’s heard of. How do you feel about that, Weston?” The reporter shoots me a pointed gaze and my gut churns.
I fucking hate the idea.
But I can’t very well say that in a room filled with press. I pause for a second, then swallow and look the woman dead in the eye.
“It will be an adjustment, but we’re looking forward to building a strong hockey-loving community there.”
The reporter doesn’t let up. “Seems like a transparent play to get the team out of the city. Did you or your brothers, any other players, know about the allegations against Coach Evans?”
My jaw tenses, heat flashing through me. “I’m not free to comment on that at this time.”
“So you did know something then?” She presses the issue.
“No, I did not.” Anger leaks into my tone as I glare at the reporter, my hands shaking with rage. I pray the cameras don’t catch the tremor as my carefully constructed mask of calm threatens to slip.
Harbor steps forward, nudging me over as she takes the mic. “As Mr. Prince and Mr. Steele have both said,they’re not free to comment while the league investigates. Next question.”
Skillfully, she steers the conversation away from Evans and the gambling allegations and cool relief washes over me as she talks. She’s in her element, professional and poised. Not timid or reserved, she handles the savage reporters like a damn lion tamer. Meanwhile, I’m over here sweating through my dress shirt, thankful I opted for the jacket. At least it hides the sweat stains.
A grudging admiration for her finesse hits me out of nowhere, catching me off guard. For a split second, I forget to be annoyed, forget to resist—her or the plan.
Then the realization hits me straight in the chest.
I may be captain of this team, but right now?
I need her.
Admitting that, even to myself, makes me feel more exposed than taking the ice without pads.
“Weston, can you comment on the new team name?”
I take a quick breath, pausing. Glancing over at Harbor, she tips her head slightly, giving me the go-ahead.
