Page 25 of Slap Shot Scandal
I survived an almost-plane crash. But I’m not so sure I’m coming out of this job intact.
Not if I have to keep working so closely with Weston Steele.
Because my heart isn’t part of the contract.
CHAPTER 7
HARBOR
Driftwood Cove doesn’t disappoint. From the white sand beach to the crystal blue water, the rolling dunes buffered with tall sea oats blowing in the wind, the landscape’s picturesque. And, despite my father’s negativity, the town isn’t a “piss-ass, backwater swamp” at all. The Main Street area’s lined with charming boutiques—a wine and cheese shop, a bookstore, an old-fashioned ice cream parlor, a beachy gift shop. Every store front has a different colored awning, the prettiest pink, aqua, and sunshine yellow pastels. The entire area’s walkable, with plenty of grassy spaces and sidewalks perfect for a lazy afternoon stroll. And the Southern hospitality thing? Real, y’all.
All the good things I’d read online about this super cute beach town turn out to be absolutely true. Starting with the adorable Driftwood Inn. Sitting right on the beach, the quaint two-story hotel has an amazing ocean view from the lobby. Lots of glass and white-washed wood, with plush light blue couches. There’s a restaurantopen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner with a small bar area. And the pool sits in the center of an old-fashioned courtyard flanked by hotel rooms. The set-up’s quirky and fun, and I can envision a lot of great events in the future.
I’m staying here until I find a more permanent place to live. But I haven’t had much free time to drop everything and house hunt. Mr. Prince has kept me busy, sitting in non-stop meetings from morning to night. By the time I roll into the inn, I’m too exhausted to even scour the internet for listings.
Luckily, the team’s hired a relocation specialist to help the players find rentals. Smart move because while adorable, the town is on the smaller side. There’s one luxury condo building, but it’s only four stories high. Something about building code and beach ordinances. Even if no other residents currently lived in the condos, the entire hockey team wouldn’t fit. Some players are going to have to rent houses or maybe apartments.
Kind of a logistical nightmare, and I’m glad housing isn’t my problem to solve. Gia, the housing woman, set me up with a tour of the condos later this afternoon, along with a townhouse and a single-family home that looks way too big for me.
I can’t focus on that right now, though. I’m running late for my morning meeting with the GM. Not ideal, considering I’m pitching the new color scheme and mascot. But my alarm didn’t go off—or at least I didn’t hear it.
Due to the summer heat, I’ve traded my typical sheath dress and heels for a slightly more casual look. Throwing on a navy striped midi dress, I slide my feet into white sneakers and grab my cell and satchel. With a quick swipe of lip gloss, I’m ready to go.
Popping my sunglasses on, I cross through the emptycourtyard. It’s still early, so no one’s lounging in the chaises or splashing around in the pool. Being June in Florida, the temperature’s already in the eighties and the curl in my hair’s telling me the humidity’s damn near one hundred percent. By midday, everyone’s going to be boiling.
Not that New York’s all that pleasant in the summer. At least here there’s a constant ocean breeze.
I walk the two blocks to the arena, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine on my skin, the slight tang of salt on the air. It’s refreshingly peaceful, the sound of the ocean waves crashing in the distance a lovely soundtrack for my commute.
I could get used to this.
Maybe Florida won’t be so bad after all. I haven’t seen a gator yet, and so far everyone’s been friendly and welcoming.
The most hostile person I’ve encountered during the relocation is Weston, and even he’s softening up a little. The turbulent plane ride showed me a side of him I hadn’t expected—protective, calm and reassuring.
After that near-death experience, I understand why he’s the team captain. He’s great under pressure, a strong leader.
I only hope he leads the team in the right direction, getting them fully aboard the rebrand. Too much rides on the plan for him to half-ass it. He promised me he wouldn’t, but I’m not sure he’s sold on the whole relocation. Not yet, anyway.
The arena parking lot’s fairly empty, and I notice Prince’s spot is vacant. At least I made it to work before my boss. I tap my building keycard on the box and the light turns green. Access granted.
I move through the airy lobby, my sneakers squeaking on the shiny linoleum. The space is light and bright, with huge windows and a soaring atrium area. Plenty of places to hang team pennants and banners in the coming season—the sponsors will love it. The bones of the arena are good. With a little bit of work, this place will be great. A perfect home for a new hockey dynasty.
Buzz, buzz.
Fishing my cell out of my bag, I read the text from Prince.
Prince: Meeting rescheduled to this afternoon. Have an interview this morning. See you at 4 PM
Well, guess I’m not late after all. It’s fine, I can use the extra time to research different community outreach opportunities. I’d love to have at least one lined up by the end of the week so we can hit the ground running once the rest of the team shows up.
On a whim, I decide to cut through the rink to get to the offices on the other side of the building. I pull the heavy metal door open and slip into the chilly arena. A shiver rolls through me at the sudden change in temperature, chill bumps rising on my bare arms. I blink, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. The only light in the arena shines down on the ice, illuminating the rink.
I’m not alone.
Weston’s out on the ice in his practice jersey, running drills. His back’s to me as he skates toward the opposite goal, W. STEELE stamped across his shoulder blades. Ice flurries around the blades of his skates as he races across the rink. At the goal, he slides to a stop, then transitions into backward skating. He’s quick and graceful, the thickmuscles in his legs visible without the typical bulky pads. I hold my breath as I watch him skate back and forth, a blue streak against the white ice. Strong, lithe, powerful.
This is what elite-level hockey looks like. I’ve watched enough practices to recognize good players from great ones.
