6. Harbor
HARBOR
T he 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.
“You have any more good mascot ideas?” He interrupts my dirty thoughts and I clear my throat.
“I’m assuming Coastal Crabs isn’t going to work for you?”
“No, definitely not. Don’t think anyone on the team wants to be associated with crabs. For obvious reasons.”
I’m sure I turn bright red, a high-pitched giggle squeaking from my throat. Rearranging my face, I try to regain my totally professional, not-at-all flirty composure.
“Fine. So we’ve ruled out seahorses, barracuda, turtles, and crabs.” I list each animal, tapping the pads of my fingers one by one.
“Does the mascot have to be marine life? Can’t we be something that sounds cool, like the Storm or the Cyclones?”
“An animal is memorable, though. Easy to brand for merch. ”
He huffs out a breath, raking a hand through his dark hair. “Fine. We’ll keep thinking then.”
The cabin lights dim and the engines roar to life, the floor vibrating. I grip the armrest between us as the pilot advises everyone to buckle up for takeoff. Weston reaches over and clicks his seatbelt into place, then leans back into the leather. Relaxed and calm.
Unlike me, my insides knotting and twisting like a soft pretzel from a Central Park vendor. I’ve never been a huge fan of flying and somehow, the private plane feels worse than commercial. Smaller and more likely to crash.
The plane begins to taxi and we pick up speed at an alarming rate. I focus on breathing in and out. Weston cuts his eyes at me.
“You okay over there, Hurricane? You sound like you’re having an asthma attack.” His lips curve up slightly at the corners and I attempt a glower, although I’m very busy panicking about dying at the moment.
“I’m fine,” I wheeze, in between breaths. “Maybe a touch nervous.”
“Ah, she does have a weakness. So you can handle a room full of vicious reporters, but a little bit of gravity defying is too much?” His eyes twinkle, and I grimace as we lift off the runway.
“I suppose you’re going to use this against me at some point in time?” I shoot back, already worrying about how he’s going to spin this.
“Never. Just like you can’t hold it against me that I’m terrified of moths.”
“Moths? They don’t do anything but fly around.”
“I know. But you never know where those creepy things are going to land and they’re all dusty, like they just escaped from a crypt or something. Look…” He points out th e window at the fluffy white clouds rolling by. We’re already airborne, and I didn’t have a panic attack.
“Wow. Thanks. For distracting me.” I shoot him a begrudging look of gratitude, surprised at how decent he’s being.
Not making that professional distance thing any easier.
The foursome stays at the front of the plane, partially hidden behind a half privacy screen. Which leaves me and Weston here in the back, the only other people on board besides the pilots and flight attendant. And now that we’re soaring high above the clouds, I’m hyperaware of him.
The casual way he stretches out in his seat, commanding space. The easy in-and-out of his breath, each exhale winding his intoxicating scent around me. The heat shimmering off his body, lighting me up inside.
Distracting me.
“Would you care for a beverage?” The flight attendant glances from me to Weston.
“I’ll have a water,” Weston says.
“Still or sparkling?” She bats her thick fringe of lashes at him, and a flash of irritation rips through me. I quickly shove it away. So what if she’s flirting with him?
I don’t even like the guy.
Besides, I’m sure he lands more than his fair share of women, like most other pro athletes.
“Still would be great, thanks.” He’s polite, but doesn’t even look twice at her.
Interesting. And again, unexpected.
“Same.” I nod curtly, and she hurries away to get the drinks.
“Serious question…” Weston narrows his eyes, peering over at me. “Is this relocation thing temporary? Or is the team moving to Florida forever? ”
His question’s a sucker punch straight to the gut, circling us right back to the very issue dividing us. I swipe my hands down the soft linen of my skirt, mouth dry.
“Uh…tough to say.”
His full lips press into a thin line. “Not a great response, Hurricane. As someone who does press interviews for a living, I thought you’d come up with something better than that.”
I bite at the inside of my cheek, wishing I had a more concrete answer.
“I know. Sorry. It kind of depends on how the season goes, I guess. Ultimately, the final decision’s not up to me.”
He swivels in his seat, facing me. “We’re kind of damned if we do, damned if we don’t then, am I right?
Play great, town loves us—we stay in Florida forever.
Or get down there and suck, the community angle doesn’t hit, and we’re back at square one.
Players lose their positions, more people from the franchise get fired… ”
And I’m out on my ass. Proving my father right.
You’re not championship material, Harbor.