11. Weston
WESTON
A fter being stuck in the elevator with Harbor yesterday, I need to cool down. So naturally I immediately schedule solo practice time on the ice.
I have to regroup, get my head on straight.
Because being that close to Harbor—trapped in the dark, her body smashed up against mine—unlocked something inside me. Something I thought was broken forever.
Desire .
And it couldn’t be happening at a worse fucking time.
I’ve had my eyes on the puck since I got drafted into the pros. I’m singularly focused, every fiber of my being locked in on hockey.
Hockey, hockey, and more hockey.
This game is everything to me.
Well, at least it was until yesterday.
Now all I’m thinking about is the tiny blonde making my heart race faster than a breakaway.
Those wide, hazel eyes with the thick fringe of lashes, staring straight into my soul.
The way she gnaws at her full bottom lip when she’s deep in thought, the slightly sweet scent of her perfume mixed with sunscreen drifting from her skin.
Dammit.
Just thinking about her has my dick hard and it’s not even light outside yet. Hopefully, an early morning practice will help me sort things out before I see her again. I need to have my game face on for our meeting at Shoreline Coffee later today. Not acting like some simp looking to get laid.
I skate onto the ice, rolling my shoulders back. Trying to get into the proper mindset and forget about Harbor.
Easier said than done.
I drop down into my hip stretch, the coldness of the ice leaching through the gloves.
Thrust, stretch, thrust, stretch.
Everything that’s happened in the last couple of weeks swirls through my mind. Coach Evans’s betrayal. Saying goodbye to Manhattan. Flying down here on the team jet. Harbor hanging onto me for dear life when we hit turbulence, her chest flushing. The way she gazed up at me, pupils dilated.
Aroused.
Purely a sympathetic nervous system response to almost crashing, but I bet that’s what she looks like after she comes.
Damn, Steele. Way to take it there.
But I can’t help it. There’s something about her—the fire in her eyes, those snappy retorts, the push-pull thing we have going. All of it combined has me unbalanced, off my game.
I move from stretches to easy skating, warming up my muscles. Gliding side to side, the sluicing of the blade loud and rhythmic in the empty space.
In a trance, I skate up and down the ice, my breathing even and controlled.
Not like it would be if Harbor was under me right now.
Her round breasts bared to me, nipples rosy and diamond-sharp. I’d suck each one hard until she moaned my name, begging me to fuck her.
I lower my head and pick up speed. Getting into a quicker pace, ice flying around the blades of my skates.
Please, Weston. Please fuck me.
I’d tease her, sliding my fingers into her hot, wet pussy. Working her until her body bowed to me. Arching up and wanting more.
So much more.
Keeping my center of gravity low, I apply pressure to the edges of my blades and stop on the line.
Spin and repeat. This time harder, faster, more explosive.
Please.
I’d ease into her, slowly, so slowly. Finally giving into the tension we’ve been fighting since the moment we met. She’d wind her arms around me, her fingers dancing across my lats. Then I’d press all the way inside her, filling her up with my rock-hard cock.
Hips thrusting, pounding into her. Her entire body flushed, eyes fluttering closed as I hammer into her.
Please, Weston. Please.
Begging for me. Wanting me. Needing me.
The overhead lights flip on and I blink against the brightness.
What the fuck? I reserved the rink this morning. No one else should be here .
“Hey, bro.” Bennett skates onto the ice and my gut tightens, aggravation flaring.
“Hey.”
He does a few quick stretches, then skates over to me.
“Surprised to see you here so early. Thought you’d still be sleeping, adjusting to the heat.” I lean on my stick, assessing my brother. He’s suited up in his practice gear, ready to go.
“Nah. I spent the last few days packing. I need to get back on the ice, stay sharp. Wanna run some drills together?”
I consciously shrug away my agitation. I should be happy to have someone to run drills with.
“Sure.”
Bennett slaps the puck toward me and wordlessly we break into the same warm-up drill we’ve been doing since we were kids at rec league.
Moving down the ice, Bennett drives wide.
I drop the pass back to him as we skate toward the goal.
He takes aim at the water bottle set at the corner of the net, the puck flying across the ice.
“Score!” Bennett pumps his fists into the air as the water bottle falls. He cups his hands around his mouth, cheering. “Go Steele!”
“You’re such a ham, bro.” I retrieve the puck and we repeat the drill, switching positions this time.
Skate, drop back, slice, aim, shoot.
The puck ricochets off the bottle, the plastic toppling and the black disc bouncing back.
“Denied!” Bennett cries, his voice echoing off the empty bleachers. “Boo! Hiss!”
“Shut the fuck up, Puck Bunny.” I scowl at him, slapping the puck against my stick .
“Captain losing his edge?” His brow arches as we skate the other direction.
“No. Just an unlucky shot.”
“Uh-huh.” Bennett lines up and shoots, the puck pounding into the bottle. “Another point for Bennett Steele. He’s gonna be tonight’s MVP for sure!”
“Oh brother,” I mutter, skating away from my egomaniacal triplet.
“What? It’s called manifesting, bro. You should try it sometime. Maybe with PR Barbie?”
Jaw clenching, I dig my blades into the ice and pick up speed.
My words whip out, landing in the space between us. “Her name is Harbor. Not PR-fucking-Barbie. Or Malibu Barbie.”
“Right. Har-bor.” He draws her name out, two long syllables. “You two looked pretty cozy in the elevator yesterday. Sorry I interrupted.”
Redemption time.
Eyes pinned on the goal, I fire off my shot. The water bottle flies up into the air as the puck slices into the corner of the net.
“There. Happy now?” I come to a hard stop, ice flying. “Goal. And we weren’t anything. Aren’t anything,” I correct myself, driving the point home.
“So you’d be cool with me making a move then?”
I grit my teeth, trying hard to tamp down the emotions flooding through me. Irritation, anger, jealousy, all swirling together.
Jealousy. What the fuck?
I have no right to be jealous of anything when it comes to Harbor. Yet the thought—the very idea—of my brother flirting with her, asking her out—grinds my gears .
Hard.
“No, I would not.” I spit out the words, knuckles flexing in my gloves.
“Because there’s nothing going on between you two, right?” Bennett tips his head, his blue eyes narrow as he goads me.
“For fuck’s sake, Bennett. Do you have to try to get with every female you come into contact with?”
Bennett shrugs. “I mean, I don’t have to. But I do love a good challenge. And PR Barbie—sorry, Harbor—is pretty hot, in that uptight, corporate kinda way.”
Anger simmers low in my gut. “She’s not all that uptight.”
“Whoa—” Bennett holds his hands up. “Heard, loud and clear. You’re into her. I’ll consider her off-limits.”
He skates around me in a tight circle, stopping at my elbow. “I haven’t seen you this worked up over someone since Bee.”
I flinch at her name.
It’s been a long time since anyone’s brought Bee up around me. My one and only long-term girlfriend, the girl I cut loose after I got drafted. Instinctively, I knew I needed to focus on my hockey career.
So I unceremoniously broke up with her after three years of dating. Not because I didn’t care about her or love her. I did.
But not more than hockey.
I haven’t spoken to her since, and guilt still gnaws at me about that. I should have handled the entire situation better, more gracefully.
But I figure she’s better off without me. It’s not like she tried to connect. I haven’t either.
Best to leave the past in the past .
I’ve been single ever since, never wanting to choose between love or hockey again. Instinctively knowing there’s only room in my life for one of them.
Glancing over my shoulder at my brother, I lock a steely gaze with him. “I’m not worked up over Harbor. I just don’t think you—or anyone else—should be flirting with, dating, or otherwise engaging—with the PR consultant hired to rescue the team. It’s not a good look.”
Bennett snickers, and now I’m even more pissed off.
“What?”
“I’m gonna remind you of this conversation in a few weeks, Saint Weston.”
“Fuck off, Bennett.”
He lifts his helmet, shaking his shaggy hair loose. “Gladly. Thanks for the practice.”
Then he skates away, leaving me stewing over the Harbor situation and the ominous prediction he left in his wake.
I pull up to Shoreline Coffee a few minutes before seven. There’s plenty of parking outside the town’s one and only coffee shop.
Maybe Driftwood Cove won’t be so bad after all.
I banish the thought immediately. Clearly, Harbor and all her bright and sunny optimism’s getting to me.
Locking the Porsche, I stride into the empty shop.
The place is light and bright, very beachy, with whitewashed chairs and tables and a few booths along the side wall.
Instead of the typical dark tile flooring I’m used to back in New York, here the floors are some type of light wood.
A lone barista stands at the white marble counter, scrolling through her phone and looking bored. No sign of Harbor.
I take a few seconds to browse the chalkboard menu, then go with my usual order.
“Morning. I’ll take a cold brew with a splash of half and half, light ice.”
“What size? We have mini, regular, and tidal.”
“Um…regular?”
“Cool.” She rings me up, then sets about making my coffee, avoiding both eye contact and conversation which I don’t mind a bit.
I take a seat at a table in the back. Eyes pinned on the door, my knee’s bouncing up and down like a jackhammer and I haven’t had any caffeine yet.
Not a great sign.