Page 20 of Slap Shot Scandal
The last few days have been a whirlwind of packing and planning. All my belongings are boxed up and headed down to Florida on a moving van. With any luck, I should have my stuff in the next week or so. In the meantime, I’ll be living straight out of the carry-on I’m wheeling behind me down the black tarmac toward the team’s private jet.
My stomach swirls the closer I get to the plane—and, let’s be honest—Weston Steele. I saw the softer side of the grumpy captain the day of the press conference. Turns out he’s not growly all the time and may even possess a sense of humor.
Who knew?
But I need to keep my focus strictly professional. My entire career rests on the success of this rebrand. Still, I can’t ignore the racing of my heart when he levels those deep blue eyes on mine, the flutter in my belly.
The man’s maddeningly attractive, even with the piss-poor attitude.
It’s just my luck that the first time I spark with anyone in ages, the man happens to be the grumpy team captain. Unthinkable to go there. Like, beyond off-limits.
I can’t even remember the last time I went on a date. Everyone I meet is through my job, and I need to keep my image squeaky clean when it comes to my clients.
Especially the gorgeous male ones.
My focus is on the work, not the players. It’s difficult enough being a woman in the male-dominated sports industry, everyone constantly second-guessing my knowledge and authority. Any whisper of impropriety is basically the kiss of death to my career.
To be safe, once the details of the new campaign are worked out, I won’t spend so much time with Weston. I’m confident I can keep my distance and stay strictly surface level with him. No problem.
A flight attendant takes my bag at the bottom of the stairway, and I climb the metal stairs up to the plane. A light wind whips my hair around my shoulders as I step into the cabin. Unlike a typical commercial flight, the jet’s calm and quiet. Soft music plays over the sound system and the cool air smells fresh and slightly minty.
“Harbor, glad you could make it.” Mr. Prince waves from his seat at the front of the plane. The general manager’s sitting beside him sipping a Perrier. Two other men I vaguely recognize sit across from them in a two-by-two seat configuration, with a small table between them.
“Thanks for having me.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing the final strategy and all the details this week.” He smiles at me, takes a sip of his drink.
I better get Weston on board sooner rather than later. I’m running out of time.
Winners don’t make excuses, Harbor. They create results.My dad’s voice echoes in my head.
Well, I’m about to deliver championship-level results—if I can get the team captain to stop fighting me at every turn.
“You bet!” I force confident enthusiasm into my voice, returning the smile.
Prince resumes his conversation with the GM, and I glance around at my seating options. There’s a sofa-like lounger at the rear. Not very conducive to business, especially while wrangling my laptop. The middle section of the plane has the more traditional seats, although these are much wider and plusher. I slide into one of the two open seats on the right and peer out the window at the city skyline. A twinge of sadness pings through me. I don’t know when—or if—I’ll be back in the city again. Although I moved around a lot as a kid, I’ve been in Manhattan for several years. Since I graduated from college, my longest stint anywhere.
I’m going to miss this place. All the hustle, the grit and determination. The bright lights and the constant breakneck pace.
There’s no place like NYC, that’s for sure.
“Anyone sitting here, Hurricane?” Weston’s deep, gruff voice interrupts my pity party.
“No.”
Dammit.
My voice comes out all weird and breathy, my stupid heart pounding a mile a minute. I should protest the slightly derogatory nickname, but I’m distracted by the strip of abs peeking out from beneath his T-shirt as he tosses his duffel into the overhead bin. I try not to stare.Try even harder to ignore the delicious scent drifting from his skin, cedar and man, as he sinks down beside me.
He’s so tall and broad, his body takes up every inch of the extra wide seat, our arms brushing on the armrest.
“Sorry,” I murmur, easing away from him. As if there’s anywhere to escape. I’m sandwiched between the window and this hulk of a man for the next few hours.
“It’s fine.” He shifts in the seat, stretching out his long legs. I can’t help but notice how tiny I am next to him, practically half his size.
Good thing you’re keeping this strictly professional. You probably can’t handle him anyway, if the palm - penis size thing’s really true.
My cheeks heat as I stare at his massive hands resting on the thighs of his dark joggers.
