7. Harbor
HARBOR
D riftwood Cove doesn’t disappoint. From the white sand beach to the crystal blue water, the rolling dunes buffered with tall sea oats blowing in the wind, the landscape’s picturesque.
And, despite my father’s negativity, the town isn’t a “piss-ass, backwater swamp” at all.
The Main Street area’s lined with charming boutiques—a wine and cheese shop, a bookstore, an old-fashioned ice cream parlor, a beachy gift shop.
Every store front has a different colored awning, the prettiest pink, aqua, and sunshine yellow pastels.
The entire area’s walkable, with plenty of grassy spaces and sidewalks perfect for a lazy afternoon stroll.
And the Southern hospitality thing? Real, y’all.
All the good things I’d read online about this super cute beach town turn out to be absolutely true.
Starting with the adorable Driftwood Inn.
Sitting right on the beach, the quaint two-story hotel has an amazing ocean view from the lobby.
Lots of glass and white-washed wood, with plush light blue couches.
There’s a restaurant open for breakfast, lunch, and dinner with a small bar area.
And the pool sits in the center of an old-fashioned courtyard flanked by hotel rooms. The set-up’s quirky and fun, and I can envision a lot of great events in the future.
I’m staying here until I find a more permanent place to live.
But I haven’t had much free time to drop everything and house hunt.
Mr. Prince has kept me busy, sitting in non-stop meetings from morning to night.
By the time I roll into the inn, I’m too exhausted to even scour the internet for listings.
Luckily, the team’s hired a relocation specialist to help the players find rentals.
Smart move because while adorable, the town is on the smaller side.
There’s one luxury condo building, but it’s only four stories high.
Something about building code and beach ordinances.
Even if no other residents currently lived in the condos, the entire hockey team wouldn’t fit.
Some players are going to have to rent houses or maybe apartments.
Kind of a logistical nightmare, and I’m glad housing isn’t my problem to solve. Gia, the housing woman, set me up with a tour of the condos later this afternoon, along with a townhouse and a single-family home that looks way too big for me.
I can’t focus on that right now, though. I’m running late for my morning meeting with the GM. Not ideal, considering I’m pitching the new color scheme and mascot. But my alarm didn’t go off—or at least I didn’t hear it.
Due to the summer heat, I’ve traded my typical sheath dress and heels for a slightly more casual look. Throwing on a navy striped midi dress, I slide my feet into white sneakers and grab my cell and satchel. With a quick swipe of lip gloss, I’m ready to go.
Popping my sunglasses on, I cross through the empty courtyard.
It’s still early, so no one’s lounging in the chaises or splashing around in the pool.
Being June in Florida, the temperature’s already in the eighties and the curl in my hair’s telling me the humidity’s damn near one hundred percent.
By midday, everyone’s going to be boiling.
Not that New York’s all that pleasant in the summer. At least here there’s a constant ocean breeze.
I walk the two blocks to the arena, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine on my skin, the slight tang of salt on the air. It’s refreshingly peaceful, the sound of the ocean waves crashing in the distance a lovely soundtrack for my commute.
I could get used to this.
Maybe Florida won’t be so bad after all. I haven’t seen a gator yet, and so far everyone’s been friendly and welcoming.
The most hostile person I’ve encountered during the relocation is Weston, and even he’s softening up a little. The turbulent plane ride showed me a side of him I hadn’t expected—protective, calm and reassuring.
After that near-death experience, I understand why he’s the team captain. He’s great under pressure, a strong leader.
I only hope he leads the team in the right direction, getting them fully aboard the rebrand. Too much rides on the plan for him to half-ass it. He promised me he wouldn’t, but I’m not sure he’s sold on the whole relocation. Not yet, anyway.
The arena parking lot’s fairly empty, and I notice Prince’s spot is vacant. At least I made it to work before my boss. I tap my building keycard on the box and the light turns green. Access granted .
I move through the airy lobby, my sneakers squeaking on the shiny linoleum.
The space is light and bright, with huge windows and a soaring atrium area.
Plenty of places to hang team pennants and banners in the coming season—the sponsors will love it.
The bones of the arena are good. With a little bit of work, this place will be great.
A perfect home for a new hockey dynasty.
Buzz, buzz.
Fishing my cell out of my bag, I read the text from Prince.
Prince: Meeting rescheduled to this afternoon. Have an interview this morning. See you at 4 PM
Well, guess I’m not late after all. It’s fine, I can use the extra time to research different community outreach opportunities. I’d love to have at least one lined up by the end of the week so we can hit the ground running once the rest of the team shows up.
On a whim, I decide to cut through the rink to get to the offices on the other side of the building.
I pull the heavy metal door open and slip into the chilly arena.
A shiver rolls through me at the sudden change in temperature, chill bumps rising on my bare arms. I blink, my eyes adjusting to the darkness.
The only light in the arena shines down on the ice, illuminating the rink.
I’m not alone.
Weston’s out on the ice in his practice jersey, running drills.
His back’s to me as he skates toward the opposite goal, W.
STEELE stamped across his shoulder blades.
Ice flurries around the blades of his skates as he races across the rink.
At the goal, he slides to a stop, then transitions into backward skating.
He’s quick and graceful, the thick muscles in his legs visible without the typical bulky pads.
I hold my breath as I watch him skate back and forth, a blue streak against the white ice. Strong, lithe, powerful.
This is what elite-level hockey looks like. I’ve watched enough practices to recognize good players from great ones.
Even my father would agree that Weston Steele falls into the latter category, every inch of him confident and primed for peak performance.
He’s the real deal.
Picking up speed, his skates slice across the slick surface, a rhythmic ssshhh bouncing off the walls.
Soft and melodic, a whisper like the waves on the beach.
The sound grows louder as he moves in my direction, a distinct metallic scratch with each dig into the ice.
His muscles flex and ripple with the exertion and I can’t take my eyes off him.
His body, the way he moves with both speed and precision. He’s in the zone, oblivious to my presence as he switches to cone work. Zipping around each cone smoothly, easily.
He’s gorgeous.
In a Weston-trance, I inch closer to the edge of the rink. Moving up to the glass, but careful to stay in the shadows so I don’t break his flow.
From here, the ring of sweat on his jersey’s visible. His breathing’s labored as he slaloms around the cones. In and out, in and out, concentration etched on his face.
Seconds later, he’s at the other end of the rink.
He drops a puck on the ice, slapping the black disc back and forth with his stick.
Skating close to the goal, he smacks the puck deep into the corner of the net.
Retrieving the disc, he works his way through a seemingly familiar rotation.
Hit deep left. Skate away. Hit deep right. Skate. Center. Repeat.
He cycles through this drill several times before abandoning the puck in the net.
Spinning around and facing the other end of the rink, he repeats the speed drill.
Knees bent, he tilts his chest forward and powers down the ice.
Arms pumping back and forth, his head perfectly still as he pushes sideways off his blades.
Weston Steele’s an absolute force on the ice.
A spray of ice glitters in the lights and he comes to a complete stop, his broad chest heaving. Stick in hand, he lifts his helmet.
“Like what you see, Hurricane?”
My entire body jolts.
Busted.
A hot blush floods my cheeks, creeping down my neck, and I thank the universe that the arena’s dark.
I tip my chin up, though, trying to seem more confident than I feel inside. I’m not some puck bunny, sneaking in to watch the hockey star. I belong here, too.
“You look good out there, Steele.” I work very hard to sound casual.
“To your trained eye?” He cocks his head, one dark brow arched high.
I shrug. “I’ve seen a lot of hockey. My dad dragged me to tons of practices when I was a kid and my mom wanted me out of the house.”
“Fair enough.” He skates to the edge of the ice and takes off his helmet. We’re face to face, with only the glass between us.
His blue eyes sparkle beneath the bright white light, a sheen of sweat on his face.
Suddenly the arena’s a whole lot warmer .
I shouldn’t be reacting like this. I have no business getting involved with the team captain.
“Did you need something in particular, Hurricane? Or are you just here to ogle?”
The tips of my ears burn, my mouth going drier than the Gobi Desert in a drought.
“I’m not ogling.”
Definitely was.
I fold my arms across my chest and square my shoulders. “I was cutting through to the offices. For a meeting.” I stumble over the words, overexplaining.
“Uh-huh.” He locks his eyes on mine and my stomach swoops, a tingle running straight down my spine. “Let me guess—you’re pitching the new uniform design and you made them teal and hot pink.”
I screw my lips up, trying to squash my annoyance. “While that color combo would likely resonate with many Floridians, no, I did not choose teal and hot pink as the new color scheme. But maybe I will now…” I let the threat hang in the air for a moment.
Weston scowls, his little dig backfiring. “Please don’t. Pretty sure the Miami Vice vibe isn’t it right now.”
My cell buzzes and I leap at the distraction, checking my messages.
Gia: Tour at noon? A few good options I think you should see
I tap out a quick response with shaky fingers.
Harbor: Sure, sounds good. Where should I meet you?
Gia: The Cove Towers lobby
Harbor: Great. See you soon
Dropping my phone into my purse, I rise to face Weston. He’s still watching me. Stick in hand, a smirk on his too-handsome face.
“You late for your meeting now?” He tosses his stick back and forth between his palms and I’m transfixed by the white blur.
“What? No. The meeting got bumped. That was Gia. I’m taking a tour of housing options at noon.”
“Noon?” He pauses, a brow lifted.
“Yes…”
“Huh. Me too.”
I fiddle with the bangles on my wrist. “You’re touring houses today? With Gia?”
“Yes.” Weston squares his shoulders, plants his stick between his feet.
“Small world. I suppose she’s trying to consolidate her appointments.”
“Suppose so.”
I bite at my lip, shifting from foot to foot. His eyes hold mine for a long second, then he clears his throat and glances away.
“We’re both heading in the same direction. I can give you a ride if you want—my car got delivered.”
I almost choke on my own saliva. “Really?”
“I mean, yeah. It would make sense. We’re both here and we’re going to the same place. Save gas and all that.”
Trapped in a car with the grumpy hockey star who apparently makes my brain short-circuit.
Terrible freaking idea .
But, somehow, I can’t refuse. Instead, I shrug and act way more nonchalant than I feel. “You offering because it’s efficient? Or is this a power play to avoid hot pink and teal?”
“Strictly efficiency, Hurricane.” He puts his helmet back on and pivots, going back to practice. But he steals a quick glance back at me over his shoulder.
“Besides, I look good in pink.” He winks and skates away, leaving me standing there absolutely shook.
I think the grumpy hockey captain may be thawing.
At any rate, I have a ride to the condos. And I’m probably reading way too much into his carpool offer. It’s a rideshare, not a date.
Yet my chest feels lighter than it has in months—and that terrifies more than the current PR crisis.
I can’t get distracted.
Remember, Harbor. The moment you take your eyes off the prize, you’ve already lost the game.
Getting involved with Weston Steele is exactly the kind of thing my dad would predict—proof that I’m not a winner, not cut out for this game.
There’s no way I’m letting that happen.