Page 49 of Slap Shot Scandal
A dull headache’s coming on, tension creeping up my neck into my jaw. I massage my temple with my fingertips, trying to fight off the throbbing.
I don’t have time to sit around and nurse a headache. It’s already late and I need to check the majority of tasks off this massive list before I leave today. And now I also have interview questions to get over to Weston and a team dinner to attend.
This day keeps getting better.
Clipboard in hand, I push away from my desk. Ignoring the pounding in my head, I hustle out of the office in search of good spots for photo ops. The obvious choice is on the ice. The goalie and a few players can use that location. But I still have at least fifteen to twenty more player photos to arrange and I don’t want them all using the same background. If I use each spot five times, I need four more locations.
Hmmm.
What about the locker room? I peeked in there the other day, but I don’t remember too much about the space. I recall it being kind of dark—the photographer’s probably going to need more light.
I hurry down the hallway toward the locker room. I’ll just pop my head in and snap a few quick pics, then send them to the photographer and see what he thinks.
The hallway’s empty, my heels clicking loudly on the concrete floor. Most of the team’s out searching for housing and unpacking. The players had some ice time this morning if they wanted it, but nothing’s formally on the schedule yet. The locker room should be vacant.
Just in case, I rap on the door twice. No response. The coast is clear.
I push into the locker room, glancing around and sizing up the space. It’s a nice locker room, with light oak benches and freshly painted lockers in the dark blue of the new team logo. We could take photos in front of the lockers. With the proper lighting, this could be a great spot for individual portraits.
Snapping pics with my cell to send to the photographer, I jot rough dimensions down on the clipboard. While I’m all the way down here, I may as well check out the rest of the space, make sure there’s no better spot. Mindful of the time crunch, I hurry around the corner lost in thought.
“Oof.”
My clipboard clatters to the ground as I run straight into a wall of solid muscle.
Shirtless, solid muscle, broad pecs on display for anyone to see.
My palms land on rock-hard biceps and I teeter on my heels. A large hand reaches out to steady me, grabbing me by the waist before I topple over. My breath hitches as I’m thrust closer to him. Heart pounding, I tear my gaze from the rippling abs and dare to lift my eyes to his face.
The pulse point at his throat quickens, a rapid flutter beneath the still-damp skin. His pupils dilate as he lockseyes with me, the thin ring of blue almost swallowed by the black.
Weston.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer, high-pitched and breathy. “I didn’t mean to run into you like this. I’m scouting locations for the player photos. I knocked but no one answered.”
The words tumble out, spilling from me like a babbling waterfall as my face burns.
Damn, Weston is fucking hot.
Hotter than I even imagined. I can’t keep my eyes off his golden skin, that deep V at his hips where his pants sit low on his waist.
He stares down at me, his eyes dark and stormy. A tiny furrow creases his brow, like he’s struggling to hold something back. Blood roars in my ears, drowning out everything besides me and Weston, the space between us shrinking. Every nerve in my body hums in anticipation, and I’m torn between fear and desire.
Should I run? Or should I stay?
Heat radiates off his body, clear droplets of water still beading on his corded shoulders. Dark hair damp and messy, he smells so damn good. Fresh and clean, manly. The air around us vibrates, charged with something I don’t dare name, and I wonder if he feels it too.
“Harbor—” His voice is low and husky, my name a whisper on his lips.
I’m paralyzed, locked in the forcefield of his gaze, my heart slamming against my ribcage. The seconds stretch between us. I should step back, walk away. Anything.
But I can’t.
Can’t think, can’t move. I can barely breathe.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but thewords die on my lips as he inches closer to me. His hand finds my hip, pulling me closer to him, fingers searing me through the fabric of my skirt.
“I’m…”
