Page 26 of Slap Shot Scandal
Even my father would agree that Weston Steele falls into the latter category, every inch of him confident and primed for peak performance.
He’s the real deal.
Picking up speed, his skates slice across the slick surface, a rhythmicssshhhbouncing off the walls. Soft and melodic, a whisper like the waves on the beach. The sound grows louder as he moves in my direction, a distinct metallic scratch with each dig into the ice. His muscles flex and ripple with the exertion and I can’t take my eyes off him.
His body, the way he moves with both speed and precision. He’s in the zone, oblivious to my presence as he switches to cone work. Zipping around each cone smoothly, easily.
He’s gorgeous.
In a Weston-trance, I inch closer to the edge of the rink. Moving up to the glass, but careful to stay in the shadows so I don’t break his flow.
From here, the ring of sweat on his jersey’s visible. His breathing’s labored as he slaloms around the cones. In and out, in and out, concentration etched on his face.
Seconds later, he’s at the other end of the rink. He drops a puck on the ice, slapping the black disc back and forth with his stick. Skating close to the goal, he smacks the puck deep into the corner of the net. Retrieving the disc, heworks his way through a seemingly familiar rotation. Hit deep left. Skate away. Hit deep right. Skate. Center. Repeat.
He cycles through this drill several times before abandoning the puck in the net. Spinning around and facing the other end of the rink, he repeats the speed drill. Knees bent, he tilts his chest forward and powers down the ice. Arms pumping back and forth, his head perfectly still as he pushes sideways off his blades.
Weston Steele’s an absolute force on the ice.
A spray of ice glitters in the lights and he comes to a complete stop, his broad chest heaving. Stick in hand, he lifts his helmet.
“Like what you see, Hurricane?”
My entire body jolts.
Busted.
A hot blush floods my cheeks, creeping down my neck, and I thank the universe that the arena’s dark.
I tip my chin up, though, trying to seem more confident than I feel inside. I’m not some puck bunny, sneaking in to watch the hockey star. I belong here, too.
“You look good out there, Steele.” I work very hard to sound casual.
“To your trained eye?” He cocks his head, one dark brow arched high.
I shrug. “I’ve seen a lot of hockey. My dad dragged me to tons of practices when I was a kid and my mom wanted me out of the house.”
“Fair enough.” He skates to the edge of the ice and takes off his helmet. We’re face to face, with only the glass between us.
His blue eyes sparkle beneath the bright white light, a sheen of sweat on his face.
Suddenly the arena’s a whole lot warmer.
I shouldn’t be reacting like this. I have no business getting involved with the team captain.
“Did you need something in particular, Hurricane? Or are you just here to ogle?”
The tips of my ears burn, my mouth going drier than the Gobi Desert in a drought.
“I’m not ogling.”
Definitely was.
I fold my arms across my chest and square my shoulders. “I was cutting through to the offices. For a meeting.” I stumble over the words, overexplaining.
“Uh-huh.” He locks his eyes on mine and my stomach swoops, a tingle running straight down my spine. “Let me guess—you’re pitching the new uniform design and you made them teal and hot pink.”
I screw my lips up, trying to squash my annoyance. “While that color combo would likely resonate with many Floridians, no, I did not choose teal and hot pink as the new color scheme. But maybe I will now…” I let the threat hang in the air for a moment.
