Page 28 of Slap Shot Scandal
Remember, Harbor. The moment you take your eyes off the prize, you’ve already lost the game.
Getting involved with Weston Steele is exactly the kind of thing my dad would predict—proof that I’m not a winner, not cut out for this game.
There’s no way I’m letting that happen.
CHAPTER 8
WESTON
Idon’t know what possessed me to offer Harbor a ride to the condos. Sure, heading over together is practical and efficient.
But spending more time with the woman responsible for uprooting my life and potentially tanking my hockey career?
Not my best idea.
Especially when she’s rapidly ascending to the top of the ‘highly fuckable’ list.
Blonde, petite, the perfect size to tuck beneath my arm. Add that razor-sharp wit and glittering smile, and she’s a force to be reckoned with.
A hurricane.
Blowing through and messing me up, screwing with every single aspect of my regimented life.
I don’t date. I’m not a casual kind of guy. Unlike Bennett, I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with distractions. I like to stay focused on what’s mostimportant—hockey.
I don’t have time for relationships, making someone else happy.
But now, I can’t stop thinking about Harbor.
Not since our first run-in at the team meeting. The way she patted at my chest, blushing and stammering. Then on the plane ride when we hit the storm and she panicked. Gripping the armrest for dear life before I calmed her down.
Holding her close to me, I felt her heart pounding, heard her breath hitch when we touched.
There was something between us in that second—and I don’t think I can blame it all on the turbulence.
The woman does something to me. Much as I want to deny it, when she’s in the room, I can’t look away.
Which could be a very big problem.
The team’s in crisis, my career’s on the line. I’m the damn captain. I can’t go falling for the PR consultant behind every bad idea that’s rolled my way since Coach Evans was fired.
She’s enemy number one.
So why am I constantly thinking about crossing the line?
Fuck. This is all kinds of messed up.
Harbor waves as she hurries out of the arena, dashing across the parking lot. Bright sunlight catches the gold streaks in her hair, and I swipe my sweaty palms on my mesh shorts.
Must be the Florida humidity.
“Punctuality not your thing, Hurricane?” I open the car door for her, wait while she slides into the leather seat of the Porsche.
“Sorry.” She shoots me a sheepish look and tucks her legs into the car. “I got caught on the phone with a community sponsor.”
I slam the door and hustle around, taking my spot behind the wheel and firing up the engine. The Porsche roars to life and I punch the directions to the condo into the GPS before pulling out of the lot.
Harbor fidgets with her bracelets, hands constantly in motion, like she’s nervous.
