Page 92 of Slap Shot Scandal
I frown. “You were watching me during practice?”
“Everyone was watching you during practice. Including Coach.” He shoves past me and heads upstairs, leaving me to contemplate my life choices.
I lean against the cool marble counter and huff out a deep breath. I meant for this thing to stay easy, physical. No expectations, no fallout.
But Harbor Hayes isn’t the kind of woman you touch and forget. And now that I’ve had her, I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to go back to the way things were.
The moment I kissed her, I was a fucking goner.
I just hope it’s not going to bite me in the ass.
And if it does? I’ll deserve every damn bite.
Because there’s no way in hell I’m walking away from her now.
Although I’m working on four hours of sleep, two cups of coffee, and sheer adrenaline, I somehow manage to have the best practice I’ve had in weeks.
“Nice play, Weston!” Coach Keller yells from the bench as I slap another puck deep into the goal.
About fucking time.
My game’s back—and it’s better than ever. I haven’t been this locked in since playoffs two seasons ago. Every pass is crisp, every shot finds its mark. Even Bennett can’t get under my skin today because my body’s still humming with satisfaction from last night.
“Looks like Cap’s got his shine again.” Bennett circles around me, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Must have been a helluva PR session last night.”
He winks, and I resist the urge to shove him into the boards.
“Fuck off, Benny. All the training in the gym’s paying off is all.” I keep my tone neutral, eyes locked on the puck, careful not to give anything away.
“Right, right, that’s what we’re calling it these days,” he snickers, twirling his stick in his hands like he’s got all the time in the world. Then he leans in, dropping his voice. “Hope she gave you lots of talking points.”
I scowl. “Bro. Grow up. We had drinks and talked about the charity thing. That’s it.”
“Sure.” He pushes off, skating backward. “Just saying. If this is your new pre-game ritual? Keep it up. You haven’t looked this sharp in weeks.”
“Weston! Word in my office?” Keller tips his chin at me, motioning me over.
Fuck.
There’s no way he knows.
We’ve been careful. Benny and Callum might suspect, but I haven’t breathed a word to anyone.
Coach can’t know.
“Sure.” I skate over to the bench, plopping down and unlacing my skates. My mind whirs, running through all the possible reasons Coach could possibly want to talk privately.
None of them are good.
Rising, I follow Keller into the tunnel, weaving through the concrete maze of the arena. We pass the locker room, the gym, the training room, empty conference rooms until we finally come to his office. He unlocks the door and flicks on the light, tossing his clipboard onto his tidy desk.
His office is sparsely furnished, only a desk, a few chairs, and a computer monitor. No photos, no homey touches.
“Haven’t had a chance to decorate yet?” I glancearound at the bare walls and he shrugs, sinking down into his chair.
“I’m not too concerned with my office decor. What matters to me right now is performance—specifically, getting everyone into peak shape before the season starts.”
I swallow hard, swiping my sweaty palms down my thighs. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
