Page 125 of Slap Shot Scandal
“Harbor!” She shakes my shoulder and I come to, jerking in the chair. “I’m calling the trainer.”
“No. Please don’t.” My voice is a harsh whisper.
“Let me at least get you some water.”
I nod weakly. “Thanks.”
She scurries out of the room and I hunch over, head in hands. Hot tears prick my eyes, escaping down onto my cheeks.
I’m so fucked.
You’ll never have what it takes, Harbor.
My father was right.
I don’t have what it takes to be in professional hockey, to win. I let my personal desires come before my professional duties and look what happened.
My whole world’s burning down.
And Weston’s caught in the blaze.
The incessant buzz of my cell tells me everything I need to know.
The whole world knows about my illicit relationship with Weston Steele.
And I can’t spin this.
No matter how hard I try—what I say or do—it’s going to come off as disingenuous. Like a giant cover-up.
My credibility is shot to hell.
I stare at the photo of Weston on my computer screen and my chest cracks wide open. Aching.
For what we had, what could have been.
I wonder if he’s seen it. If he knows I’m the reason his cell won’t stop buzzing. I hope he hates me for it.
This would be easier if he did.
I know what I need to do.
And it’s the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever had to do in my entire life.
The sharp trill of my cell ringing shocks me from my pity party.
“Harbor. My office. Now,” Prince barks down the line, solidifying my decision.
With a deep, shuddery breath, I stand up and the world tilts on its axis for a second time. I grab the edge of my desk and steady myself.
You can do hard things, Harbor.
Repeating the mantra over and over again, I make my way through the maze of hallways to Prince’s office. I rap on the door and wait.
“Come in.”
He’s pacing his office, ESPN playing on the TV mounted in the corner. I catch a glimpse of the headline ticker rolling across the screen and force down another round of nausea:CRUSHERS IN CRISIS AGAIN: PLAYER ROMANCE LEAKED AHEAD OF SEASON OPENER
FUCK.
