Page 33 of Slap Shot Scandal
“You okay?” Harbor’s palm flattens on my chest. “Your heart’s racing.”
“I’m fine. Mildly claustrophobic.” Sweat beads at my temple and I take a shuddery inhale, sucking in the sweet scent of Harbor.
“Oh shit. You want some water or something? Don’t pass out on me.”
“I told you, I’m fine. And I’ll skip the water. A stalled elevator and an urgent need to pee’s not a winning combo.”
“True.”
The car jerks, dropping another inch, and I instinctively grip Harbor tighter. She shrieks, her high-pitched scream reverberating in my eardrums.
“We should sit. Just in case.” I slide to the floor, pulling her down with me. She’s nestled in between my legs for a brief moment, her warm breath dusting my cheeks. Then she slides over and settles in next to me. Shoulder to shoulder, our thighs brushing.
I pull my cell out of my pocket and tap the screen, the light bouncing off the walls.
“Dammit. No service.”
Harbor checks hers with the same result.
Tapping the flashlight button on the phone, I hold the light up to the electrical panel and pound the emergency button. Nothing happens.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I mutter, panic bubbling up. “The button doesn’t work.”
“Probably because the power’s out. Don’t worry, I’m sure your girl Gia will figure it out. Hopefully she’ll call the fire department or something.” Harbor’s tone is sarcastic.
Damn.She is jealous.
“Gia’s not my girl—don’t worry, Hurricane,” I tease, elbowing her.
“Me? I’m not worried…” Her voice trails off and my muscles tense, acutely aware of her presence, her nearness, even in the dark.
The space is small and quiet, our breathing suddenly loud. The eerie sound of the car creaking as we sway back and forth, dangling in the air, is disconcerting. More sweat beads on my brow and my underarms are soaked.
“Tell me about you.” It’s a demand, from me to her. Anything to get my mind off being trapped in here.
“Uh, what do you want to know?”
“What do you want me to know?” I shoot back, mopping my face with the hem of my T-shirt.
“Well, you know I come from a hockey family. My dad’s a coach.”
“I remember. What level?”
Harbor hesitates, then sighs. “Professional. My dad’s Doug Hayes.”
“TheDoug Hayes?” My tone’s edged with awe. “The most winning coach in the league’s history? Three-peat?”
“Yep. That’s him.”
“Wow.”
Holy shit.I’ve been treating Coach Doug Hayes’s daughter like some random PR consultant who doesn’t understand hockey. No wonder she’s been ready to hurt me every time I question her expertise. The woman’s hockey royalty, a card-carrying member of a dynasty. And I doubted her knowledge of the sport at every turn.
Airball.
“How was it growing up with Coach Hayes as a dad?”
Harbor exhales, a long, heavy sigh. “It was…something.”
