5. Weston
WESTON
H arbor Hayes is one of the most infuriating women I’ve ever met.
No, strike that. She’s one of the most infuriating people I’ve ever met. Man or woman, she’s got everyone beat.
She’s peppy and optimistic and energetic and annoyingly attractive.
The way she flips her golden hair over her shoulder, full of confidence.
The subtle movement shouldn’t affect me, but I’ve had a hard-on half the damn morning.
Sitting next to her in the small conference room, the sweet scent of her shampoo winding around me every time she moves.
Not ideal, considering I’m supposed to be hating her. Her and her relocation plan, which we’re unveiling to the media in the next fifteen minutes.
I’m used to facing reporters, answering pointed questions about the game. But today’s press conference is different—and so much worse.
The questions won’t be about moves we made on the ice, plays that didn’t go as planned.
No, the questions coming my way will be personal. About my coach and how he betrayed his team.
Did I know anything? How do I feel about it? What does this mean for the team’s future?
Questions I’d honestly rather not answer. But as Harbor pointed out, evasion sometimes isn’t the best strategy.
“You okay?” Harbor cuts her eyes at me, tiny flecks of gold sprinkled in the field of mossy green and brown.
I nod, swallowing hard over the lump in my throat. The muffled chatter of reporters drifts into the empty hallway where we’re awaiting our cue.
“I’m fine.” I force out the words, my voice gruff and scratchy.
“Here, have some water.” She whips a plastic bottle from her oversized bag and offers it to me.
I don’t fight her on it, gladly accepting the beverage. Unscrewing the lid, I take a few long sips.
“Thanks.” I tip my chin at her, my gut swirling with nerves.
“You’re going to do great. Just remember what we practiced and stick to the script.”
The tension headache from yesterday comes roaring back, the persistent throbbing at the base of my neck growing stronger by the second.
“Okay.” I shove a hand in my pocket and try to ignore the wave of queasiness rolling through me.
You can do this, Steele. You’re a professional hockey player. This is nothing compared to facing a rival on the ice.
“Weston…” Harbor’s delicate fingers flutter to the navy tie currently choking me out, and she steps in front of me, adjusting the knot. I take a quick breath, inhaling her sweet sc ent, fruity with a hint of vanilla. The pressure in my head eases and my gut calms down, my focus on her.
“You’ve got this. If anyone asks a question you’re not comfortable answering, tap the notepad and I’ll step in, okay? We’re a team out there.” She gazes up at me through thick, dark lashes and my pulse accelerates.
So much for calming down.
“You two ready?” Prince comes from behind, slapping me on the back and bringing me crashing back to shitty reality.
Harbor drops her hand quickly, blushing. “Yes, sir. Ready to go. I was just briefing Mr. Steele one last time.”
“Great. Let’s go.” Prince shoves through the door into the bustling media room and marches straight to the podium. The sound amplifies as Harbor and I follow close behind.
Cameras click and reporters start shouting questions at us before we even make it to the microphone.
“Is it true Evans is gone?”
“What about the infidelity rumors?”
“What’s the future of the team?”
Flash, flash, flash.
Bright pops of white blur my vision as people shout their questions, each voice growing louder in an effort to be heard. I stand slightly behind Prince, Harbor next to me, letting the team owner field the first set of questions.
He taps the microphone, adjusting it before he speaks.
“Good afternoon.”
A murmur rises from the crowd and he holds up his hand, silencing the room. “I want to thank everyone for showing up today. As you may have heard, the head coach, Sean Evans, has been terminated. We’re in the process of interviewing a replacement. ”
“Is it true he had sex with your wife?” a reporter from Channel 6 shouts, and the crowd erupts.
Prince’s jaw ticks, his fist balling on the podium. “I’m not answering personal questions. Evans no longer works for the team. After a season that didn’t end as we hoped—with a win in the playoffs—we’re moving in a different direction.”
“What can you tell us about the gambling allegations?” another reporter shouts, and Prince’s knuckles turn white.
“The league is in charge of all investigations. I’m not at liberty to comment on the matter. Next.”
A dark-haired reporter stands. “Rumors are swirling that several key investors are dropping their sponsorships, not wanting to be involved with a scandal. What impact will this have on the team? Are you worried?”
Prince blanches at this question, and I’m glad it’s him dealing with this set of inquiries and not me.
“This team is financially sound and remains a good investment for sponsors. Many of our partners stand with us, committed to the great sport of hockey and our joint charitable endeavors. I thank each and every one of them for their support and look forward to an even brighter future as we continue working together next season.”
Damn. Great answer, enough to silence the reporters for a full minute.
“Mr. Prince, is it true the team’s leaving New York?” Meg, Bennett’s hottie from Channel 9, hops up.
“The team is relocating for the upcoming season, yes.” Prince nods, his mouth set in a thin, tight line. “We’ve enjoyed our time playing in this great city. But we’re moving in a new direction and that includes a change of venue. The team will be heading down to Florida next season. ”
At this announcement, the room breaks into a frenzy of questions and comments. Harbor steps forward, whispering in Prince’s ear. He nods and moves away from the podium, and Harbor motions for me to take his place.
I follow her direction as she lowers the microphone and addresses the crowd.
“We’re here today to unveil the new team name and location. Joining us is a man I’m sure you all recognize, team captain Weston Steele.” A loud echo of applause vibrates the wooden podium as I nod and wave at the sea of reporters. “Mr. Steele.”
Harbor steps to the side, slightly behind me, but still close enough I feel her body heat. Our arms almost touching, her presence is comforting, grounding me in this surreal moment.
“Good afternoon.” I adjust the microphone, screechy feedback jolting the crowd into silence.
Eager hands shoot up and Harbor points at the closest one, a reporter I vaguely recognize from past press conferences.
“Mr. Steele, what does the team think about the relocation? And do you know where in Florida you’re going?”
The question sits heavy on my conscience as I stare out into the crowd. When I took the position as team captain, I never imagined myself here, standing at this podium and lying straight into the camera.
I square my shoulders, doing my best to project confidence. Harbor and I practiced answering this question, but right now I can’t remember the exact words.
I wing it and lie. “The team’s excited for new opportunities, yeah.”
“So you’re totally sold on Florida? After playing your entire career here in New York? ”
Heat flames my face and my mouth goes dry. I curl my fingers around the edges of the podium. “I’ll always have a place in my heart for New York, starting my career here. But looking ahead, the franchise’s future is Driftwood Cove, Florida.”
I barely manage to get the words out, every fiber in my body resistant to this move.
Another collective gasp, and the chatter starts up again. Harbor selects a new reporter waving her hand high in the air.
“After years in a big city, the team’s moving to a town no one’s heard of. How do you feel about that, Weston?” The reporter shoots me a pointed gaze and my gut churns.
I fucking hate the idea.
But I can’t very well say that in a room filled with press. I pause for a second, then swallow and look the woman dead in the eye.
“It will be an adjustment, but we’re looking forward to building a strong hockey-loving community there.”
The reporter doesn’t let up. “Seems like a transparent play to get the team out of the city. Did you or your brothers, any other players, know about the allegations against Coach Evans?”
My jaw tenses, heat flashing through me. “I’m not free to comment on that at this time.”
“So you did know something then?” She presses the issue.
“No, I did not.” Anger leaks into my tone as I glare at the reporter, my hands shaking with rage. I pray the cameras don’t catch the tremor as my carefully constructed mask of calm threatens to slip.
Harbor steps forward, nudging me over as she takes the mic. “As Mr. Prince and Mr. Steele have both said, they’re not free to comment while the league investigates. Next question.”
Skillfully, she steers the conversation away from Evans and the gambling allegations and cool relief washes over me as she talks.
She’s in her element, professional and poised.
Not timid or reserved, she handles the savage reporters like a damn lion tamer.
Meanwhile, I’m over here sweating through my dress shirt, thankful I opted for the jacket. At least it hides the sweat stains.
A grudging admiration for her finesse hits me out of nowhere, catching me off guard. For a split second, I forget to be annoyed, forget to resist—her or the plan.
Then the realization hits me straight in the chest.
I may be captain of this team, but right now?
I need her.
Admitting that, even to myself, makes me feel more exposed than taking the ice without pads.
“Weston, can you comment on the new team name?”
I take a quick breath, pausing. Glancing over at Harbor, she tips her head slightly, giving me the go-ahead.
Lucky me.
“Sure. The team name is the Coastal Crushers.”
Loud murmurs fill the room as the media digests the new name, discussing amongst themselves.
“Do you have a mascot yet?” a man shouts from the back, smirking.
Asshole.
“Not yet.”
“Maybe the Terrible Turtles?” He snickers and I grit my teeth, struggling to keep my composure. It’s bad enough we lost the playoffs, then our coach. Now some dickhead from the press is gonna sit here and mock me and the team straight to my face ?
I’ve had about all I can handle for one day.
Harbor must sense my worsening mood. Her soft, smooth arm brushes mine as she steps up to the podium and gratitude surges through me as she lowers the microphone again.
“Thanks for the suggestion, Kent. I’ll take it under advisement. Are there any other serious questions?” She scans the room, waiting. No one else dares raise their hand or offer any other stupid mascot ideas. “No? Okay then. Thanks for coming. Have a great rest of the day.”
Harbor clicks the microphone off, then spins on her heel and exits the room briskly, her ass swaying side to side. I follow behind her, trying hard not to stare at the perfect globes in front of me.
It’s really fucking difficult.
We shove out into the hall, Prince right behind, and Harbor closes the door on the media with a definitive snap.
“Nice work, you two.” Prince tips his chin at us, unbuttoning his jacket and relaxing a bit.
“That went about as well as could be expected. Thanks for shutting down the gambling speculation, Harbor. Legal will be sending a memo out with details, but it goes without saying that the only thing anyone should say about the matter is ‘No comment.’”
“Understood.” I wipe my palms on my thighs and take a deep breath, my heart rate finally coming back into the normal range.
“I know it’s been a full day and there’s packing to do. Table the mascot discussion for the plane ride on Friday.”
“Plane ride on Friday?” I frown at Prince.
“Yes. Both of you should fly with me down to Florida on the jet. You can work on the way there. The sooner I get this team out of the city, the better.”
Prince nods as if he’s settled the matter, then strides off, not waiting for a response from either of us. Harbor and I stand in the hallway, the low din of the press floating through the door, an awkward silence stretching between us.
“You did well out there, Weston.” Harbor breaks the tension, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.
“Thanks. I appreciate the assist.”
“Sure, no problem.”
We lock eyes for a long second and my stomach does a weird swoopy thing. Must be my nervous system regulating after the adrenaline surge from the press conference…
“What do you think about the Fighting Terrapins?” She tilts her head, long, blond hair flowing over her shoulder.
“No. No turtle. Fighting or otherwise.”
She laughs, a light, melodic sound floating on the air, and there’s that same swoopy sensation again.
Steele, get it together.
“Fine. With you as captain, maybe I should lean more toward a crab.” Her full lips tip up into a smirk, then she spins on her heels and struts away. Leaving me standing in the hallway, speechless and staring at her perfect ass.