4. Harbor
HARBOR
I ’m thirty minutes early for the strategy meeting, but I’ve already been awake for hours. I barely slept last night, between stressing over moving logistics, replaying the text exchange with my father, and freaking out about being in the same room as Weston Steele again.
Possibly sitting next to him, heat shimmering off those broad shoulders. Jaw tense, with a slight shadow of stubble. His deep blue eyes glaring at me, searing me all the way to my soul.
Stop, Harbor. Get it together.
I cannot—will not—get involved with the grumpy hockey star.
Personally, at least. Bad enough I have to deal with him professionally.
Besides, Weston Steele made it abundantly clear that he hates me. From my PR campaign to my sunshiney disposition. The man’s a walking, talking, seething block of ice.
Adding to my anxiety is my father’s voice echoing in my head: You’re not championship material, Harbor .
Well, today I get to prove that wrong. I understand what separates dynasty-winning hockey teams from one-season wonders, and Weston Steele’s about to learn that Hayes-level strategic thinking runs in the family.
I toss the manila file folder onto the conference table and sink down into a chair facing the door. The wall clock ticks loudly in the quiet space, tick, tick, tick.
Slow and rhythmic. Eyelids heavy, I lean back into the comfy seat, the conference room fading away.
“Prince paying you to sleep on the job?” A growly voice jolts me out of my trance.
Startled, I pop up, almost falling out of the rolling chair.
“I wasn’t sleeping.” I grip the edge of the seat for balance, heart pounding as I stare up at Weston.
He pins his deep blue eyes on mine—even bluer against the navy of his fitted T-shirt—and it’s like I’m stuck in his forcefield.
Paralyzed by his granite jawline, shadowed with a days’ worth of dark stubble.
His hair’s still damp from his morning shower and his fresh, clean scent fills the room.
He’s scowling, his lips set in a tight line.
If he wasn’t so surly, I’d probably think he was sexy.
“I was thinking. I do my best work with my eyes closed.” I open the folder and grab a pen, pretending to jot down an idea.
“Uh-huh.” He pulls out the chair directly opposite mine, sinking down like a lithe, grouchy tiger.
Dammit.
The last thing I want to do is stare at his stupidly gorgeous face scowling at me, yet here I am. Doing exactly that.
Noticing his high cheekbones, the curve of his lips, the straight nose with a scar across the bridge. The tiny crinkles around his eyes, actual physical evidence the man does have an emotion other than pissed AF.
My pulse races faster and heat floods through me, palms sweaty as we face off.
“So—what’s the ‘big plan’?” He places heavy sarcasm on the words and the low simmer in my belly bubbles to anger.
Taking a deep breath, I work hard to keep my composure. One of us needs to be professional here. Guess it’s going to be me.
“Listen, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I understand you’re upset about the relocation, and I get it. Honestly, I’m not thrilled about moving either. But I do believe it’s the best thing for the team.”
“I don’t.” He sits back, folding his arms across his broad chest. Muscular arms, complete with sexy man veins popping on his forearms. My belly flip-flops and my mouth goes dry.
Why does this man have such an effect on me? He’s the last person on the planet I want to be talking to right now. Well, besides my father.
I swallow with effort and forge ahead.
“Here’s the outline. Read it over and then tell me you disagree.” I pull the five-page plan from the folder and shove it across the table at him, our fingertips brushing as he takes the paper.
Fuck me.
A ripple of electricity zings from my fingers all the way up my arm. A hot bolt of desire I definitely should not be feeling. Not now, not ever.
His grip tightens on the paper, those forearm muscles tensing slightly .
Am I imagining things or did his breathing pick up for a quick second?
Ducking his head, he studies the carefully crafted words I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours perfecting.
Tick, tick, tick.
I glance at my phone, but in reality I’m gauging his reaction, watching for micro cues. A lifted brow, a furrow. Any sign in either direction.
But the man’s infuriatingly neutral.
Fucker.
Without a word, he slides the paper back across the table at me.
“You read the whole thing already?” My voice tips up in disbelief.
“Yeah, I did. The plan sucks.”
Just like Dad.
The instant dismissal, the condescending tone. I’ve heard this exact same energy from my father a thousand times. “You don’t understand hockey culture, Harbs. What it takes to win.”
Well, I do know what builds dynasty-level team loyalty and a rabid fanbase. Time to show Captain Steele how three-peat energy is built.
“What, specifically, are you opposed to?”
“The whole damn thing. The move. Changing the team name. Your transparent attempts to ingratiate us with the community through mandatory charity events.” He lifts his fingers one by one, ticking off every idea.
“You’re opposed to charity events?”
“No. But I am if they’re fake.”
“Who says they’ll be fake? All I’m asking is for everyone to make an effort, be a good citizen. Not a huge lift. ”
“Hmph,” he grunts, shaking his head. “I don’t like it. I don’t think the people of Driftwood Cove will like it. They’re not dumb—they’ll see right through that plan.”
“You have any better ideas, Mr. Smart Guy?” I fire back, folding my arms across my chest now and matching his defensive posture.
“No. But it’s not my job to have the ideas. It’s yours.” He points at me and now I’m good and pissed.
“My point exactly, Mr. Steele. Let me do my job and you do yours. As team captain, you’re expected to help sell the plan to your teammates.”
“But I don’t like the plan.”
“Do you like every play the coach calls?” I fire back.
He stiffens, jaw ticking. “No, I don’t. But that’s different.”
I jut out my chin. “It’s actually not. Consider me the PR coach.
This is my field of expertise. And I know what I’m doing.
I bailed a professional tennis player out of a total crisis last year during the biggest tournament of her career.
Also managed to keep a basketball star out of jail, then polished up his image after the skirmish with law enforcement. ”
Championship-level crisis management. The kind of work that separates the pros from the amateurs. Dad taught me that champions perform under pressure—and that’s exactly what I do.
“Trust me—I know what I’m doing.”
“Great, good for you. But those are two individuals, not a whole damn team.”
I grit my teeth, acting way calmer than I feel. “I’ve worked with teams before too. Besides, the same principles apply.”
Weston drums his fingers on the table and I relax a bit. Maybe I made my point and he’s going to go along with the plan. That would be a huge load off my extremely tense shoulders.
“I don’t understand why we can’t hire a new coach and stay in the city.”
Dammit.
No such luck.
I heave out an exasperated sigh and glance up at the ceiling, debating how much to divulge. I figure Mr. Prince will tell him all the details anyway, since he wants him at the press conference. It wouldn’t do for Weston to be caught off guard.
“The team needs to make a move. For self-preservation. If we stay here, we’ll be ripped to shreds by the press.
Your coach is under investigation. That’s a huge deal and sponsors are freaking out about losing their investments.
Add the sex scandal in there, and it’s going to be a bloodbath.
The media is already having a field day with this, and the details haven’t leaked yet.
Only vague rumors about a possible team shake-up and the news that Coach Evans is gone. ”
My cell buzzes on the table, the loud vibration echoing off the walls. I snatch it up, glancing at the screen.
“And so it begins…” I hold the phone out so Weston can read the blaring headline.
Coach Evans scores with team owner Prince’s wife
“Shit.” He scrubs a large hand over his jaw, eyes darkening.
“I can’t believe he’d really do that to us.
” His voice so low the words are barely audible, and for a moment there’s a crack in his composure.
For the first time since we met, he’s not full of confident swagger.
His shoulders slump slightly and I feel badly for him, for the team.
Coach Evans betrayed all of them and the sting’s etched on Weston’s face.
“I’m sorry, I know this sucks for you too.” My hand trembles and I almost reach out to him, but he recovers quickly, defenses snapping back into place.
“How’d they get that photo?” He snarls at the full-color photo of Coach Evans and Mandi Prince kissing outside the arena. “Aren’t you supposed to kill things like that?”
“They already had the photos, before I was hired. Coach Evans and Mrs. Prince got sloppy. But that’s all history now. My job is immediate damage control, followed by a rebuild and growth plan. I’ve got this. You just have to trust me.”
Nostrils flaring, he levels stormy blue eyes on mine. My breath hitches and my belly rolls as we stare across the table at one another.
“You’re going to have to earn that trust, Ms. Hayes. That’s not a party favor I hand out.”
Earn it.
God, he sounds just like my father.
Prove you belong here. Show me you’re championship material.
I should have seen this coming. The second I landed this job, I did a deep-dive on the team, researching every player, the coaches, the administration.
I know about Weston’s childhood, his brothers, his hockey star father, the death of his mom.
His stats in college and the pros. Hell, I even know what he eats for breakfast.