Page 67 of Slap Shot Scandal
My head’s all fucked up.
I crank the speed on the treadmill and sprint until my chest heaves and my shirt’s ringed with sweat.
Still, her words echo in my head.
That was perfect.
Not just the interview. Me.
She saw something in me I don’t let most people see.
I can’t erase her smile, the way she lit up and fucking glowed after the interview.
And I ran away.
Again.
Bennett’s annoying voice rolls through my mind:You gonna shoot your shot, Cap?
But I can’t. We can’t. We both have too much to lose.
It’s a terrible idea.
I hit the locker room showers and try to wash away the jumpy agitation. Hot water streams around me, but it’s not enough to rinse away the ghost of her touch when she adjusted my tie. The way her fingers trembled at my throat, the hitch of her breath.
I can’t escape her, no matter what I do, where I go.
Finally, I give up and cut the water, towel off. Throwing on my last clean set of gym clothes, I head out for the day.
The building’s empty now, my teammates, the coaches and staff, all the reporters and media crew long gone. My footsteps echo down the long hallway as I trudge towardthe lobby. I’m almost at the main entrance when I spot an open door, black-and-white shadows dancing on the linoleum floor.
Intrigued, I move toward the flashing light. Hovering outside the dark room, I watch as Harbor studies video footage from the interview. Headphones over her ears, her fingers fly across the remote, pausing and restarting the film as she takes notes. Light reflects from the monitor, highlighting the apples of her cheeks, the slight curve of her full lips.
She’s beautiful and I can’t stop staring, every muscle in my body tight.
So much for working off the tension.
Every bit of it comes back full force, my heart pounding hard. She must feel my eyes on her because she swivels toward the door, her hand flying to her chest.
“Weston! You scared me.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to creep up on you.”
She laughs, the sound drifting around me and lighting me up inside.
“It’s fine. I was reviewing the film from this afternoon. You looked great out there.”
“Thanks.”
“You want to watch with me?” She tips her head, a golden wave of hair cascading over her shoulder.
I should walk away. Maybe run.
“Sure.”
Instead, I step into the dark room, drawn to the glow of the monitor.
To her.
