12. Harbor
HARBOR
D ammit.
I blink at the dark blue streak of Weston’s T-shirt as he darts out of the coffee shop, practically running to get away.
What possessed me to pat him down like a freaking TSA agent, my fingers all over his coffee-stained junk? Very sizable junk, too, impossible not to notice through the thin fabric of his pants.
I just made things a million times more awkward.
And right when I thought we were making real progress—starting to see eye to eye on the rebrand—things between us are all weird again. Something between us shifted, then shifted back again the instant I spilled my drink all over his lap.
Le sigh.
I hoped we’d turned a corner after our time in the elevator together, but I guess not. He couldn’t get away from me fast enough .
Which is probably for the best but still stings a little.
Maybe I’m reading too much into his body language, those smoldering stares. It has been a minute since I waded into the dating pool. I’m out of my element, most likely overanalyzing all the things.
Still, the way he acts when he’s with me—so focused and attentive. Like I’m the only person in the room.
Shit.
I need to stop thinking about Weston.
His ice-blue gaze, the shadow of stubble on his sharp jawline. The way the cotton of his shirt stretches to try and contain his muscles. Those abs.
All of him.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him, full stop.
We’re colleagues, nothing more.
Keep it professional, Harbor.
It’s safer that way.
Being Coach Doug Hayes’s daughter means every single move I make is analyzed, scrutinized.
Broadcasted.
I can’t date a player. That would be catastrophic, career suicide. Hello, puck bunny!
And I certainly can’t date Weston Steele. Falling for a man like him is dangerous.
Because he’s the type of guy you fall in love with—and never get over.
I can’t afford a heartbreak like that. Not now. Not ever.
Buzz, buzz.
I glance down at my phone.
Prince: Head coach interviews done. Need press conference set up to announce team move, name change, etc ASAP
Okay, then. Guess we’re full speed ahead with the rebrand.
Harbor: On it. I’ll see what I can do and get back to you with day and time
Prince: Later today or tomorrow would be ideal
Shit, no pressure.
Harbor: I’ll reach out to my contacts at the networks
Prince: Great
I tuck my cell back into my bag along with my laptop, chuck my empty coffee cup, and head to the office. It’s going to be another long day. But at least I’ll be busy. Gives me less time to think about a certain grumpy hockey captain and the stupefying effect his burning gaze has on me.
At four PM, I’m still working at my desk in the office when a good news email hits my inbox. By some miracle of God, the press conference is all set for tomorrow morning.
I immediately text Prince, letting him know all systems are a go for the rollout. Now I have roughly a million things to do to prepare for the big announcement.
So much for sleep.
I’ve pretty much resigned myself to pulling an all-nighter here in my office. Maybe I should request a couch be brought in for the late night work sessions.
Weston: Have you heard about the team dinner tonight?
What? No, I have not. And I don’t have time to sit around and eat, either.
Harbor: No. Why?
Weston: Prince wants you there
Not sure why Weston’s telling me this and not Prince himself. I sat across the table from him half the day and he never once mentioned it.
He is pretty caught up in all the planning. Not to mention meetings with his divorce lawyer. Maybe it slipped his mind.
Harbor: When and where? I’m pretty busy with the press conference on the schedule for tomorrow AM
Blue dots swirl, then disappear, then swirl again as buzzy anxiety zips through me.
Weston: The Rusty Anchor, 8 PM
Weston: The team wants to get to know the brains behind the rebran d
I stare at my screen, blushing like a teen girl with a crush on a sports star.
Weston thinks I’m smart.
I mean, I guess “the team” does. But I’ll take what I can get.
Harbor: Well, when you put it that way…
Harbor: Fine. I’ll stop by for a minute. Just to say hi and show my face
Weston: Your presence will be most appreciated
By him?
I have my doubts after this morning. He’s probably worrying about me spilling another beverage all over him, maybe groping his ass the next time.
Dammit.
Anyway, I promised myself I’d stop thinking like this. Nothing good is going to come from lusting after Weston Steele. Right now, I need to focus on this press conference and nailing every last detail.
Not the captain.
Argh. I have a freaking one-track mind right now and it’s not on PR strategy.
Dad’s voice echoes in my head: The moment personal feelings interfere with execution, you’ve lost the game.
Here I am, sitting at my desk and fantasizing about the team captain instead of focusing on tomorrow’s press conference.
Way to prove his point, Harbor.
Smoothing my hair over my shoulder, I toss my cell down and click into email. I still have so much to do and tons of unfinished tasks on my list.
Yet all I can think about is Weston’s sudden retreat this morning. I dried him off instinctively, not thinking about the logistics of my hand placement. Hopefully he won’t read anything into that.
Shit, this is awkward.
And I hate that I can’t stop thinking about him. That I’m letting him get to me like this.
With a heavy sigh, I refocus on my inbox.
Crap. ESPN wants an exclusive interview—with Weston.
Of course they fucking do.
I pick up my cell and text him again.
Harbor: ESPN wants an exclusive with you tomorrow after the press conference
Weston: Me or the team? And do you know the specifics?
Harbor: You. And I’m assuming it’s about the move and the new coach. But I’ll get more details for you. You in?
Subtext ‘pretty please.’ Because I called in about ten favors to get this press conference together on such short notice and the last thing I want to do is piss off a major network.
Weston: I guess
Harbor: Thank you! I’ll get the specifics for you ASA P
He hits a thumbs up on the message and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least I didn’t have to beg.
Not that you wouldn’t.
An image of me on my knees in front of a naked and gorgeous Weston pops into my mind.
For fuck’s sake, Harbor. Get your mind out of the gutter.
I banish the vision and type out a response to the email requesting a time and detailed questions so I can brief Weston.
Hitting ‘send’ on my reply, I check my to-do list.
Find locations for official player photos
A dull headache’s coming on, tension creeping up my neck into my jaw. I massage my temple with my fingertips, trying to fight off the throbbing.
I don’t have time to sit around and nurse a headache. It’s already late and I need to check the majority of tasks off this massive list before I leave today. And now I also have interview questions to get over to Weston and a team dinner to attend.
This day keeps getting better.
Clipboard in hand, I push away from my desk.
Ignoring the pounding in my head, I hustle out of the office in search of good spots for photo ops.
The obvious choice is on the ice. The goalie and a few players can use that location.
But I still have at least fifteen to twenty more player photos to arrange and I don’t want them all using the same background.
If I use each spot five times, I need four more locations.
Hmmm.
What about the locker room? I peeked in there the other day, but I don’t remember too much about the space. I recall it being kind of dark—the photographer’s probably going to need more light .
I hurry down the hallway toward the locker room. I’ll just pop my head in and snap a few quick pics, then send them to the photographer and see what he thinks.
The hallway’s empty, my heels clicking loudly on the concrete floor. Most of the team’s out searching for housing and unpacking. The players had some ice time this morning if they wanted it, but nothing’s formally on the schedule yet. The locker room should be vacant.
Just in case, I rap on the door twice. No response. The coast is clear.
I push into the locker room, glancing around and sizing up the space.
It’s a nice locker room, with light oak benches and freshly painted lockers in the dark blue of the new team logo.
We could take photos in front of the lockers.
With the proper lighting, this could be a great spot for individual portraits.
Snapping pics with my cell to send to the photographer, I jot rough dimensions down on the clipboard. While I’m all the way down here, I may as well check out the rest of the space, make sure there’s no better spot. Mindful of the time crunch, I hurry around the corner lost in thought.
“Oof.”
My clipboard clatters to the ground as I run straight into a wall of solid muscle.
Shirtless, solid muscle, broad pecs on display for anyone to see.
My palms land on rock-hard biceps and I teeter on my heels. A large hand reaches out to steady me, grabbing me by the waist before I topple over. My breath hitches as I’m thrust closer to him. Heart pounding, I tear my gaze from the rippling abs and dare to lift my eyes to his face.
The pulse point at his throat quickens, a rapid flutter beneath the still-damp skin. His pupils dilate as he locks eyes with me, the thin ring of blue almost swallowed by the black.
Weston.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer, high-pitched and breathy. “I didn’t mean to run into you like this. I’m scouting locations for the player photos. I knocked but no one answered.”
The words tumble out, spilling from me like a babbling waterfall as my face burns.
Damn, Weston is fucking hot.
Hotter than I even imagined. I can’t keep my eyes off his golden skin, that deep V at his hips where his pants sit low on his waist.
He stares down at me, his eyes dark and stormy.
A tiny furrow creases his brow, like he’s struggling to hold something back.
Blood roars in my ears, drowning out everything besides me and Weston, the space between us shrinking.
Every nerve in my body hums in anticipation, and I’m torn between fear and desire.
Should I run? Or should I stay?
Heat radiates off his body, clear droplets of water still beading on his corded shoulders. Dark hair damp and messy, he smells so damn good. Fresh and clean, manly. The air around us vibrates, charged with something I don’t dare name, and I wonder if he feels it too.
“Harbor—” His voice is low and husky, my name a whisper on his lips.
I’m paralyzed, locked in the forcefield of his gaze, my heart slamming against my ribcage. The seconds stretch between us. I should step back, walk away. Anything.
But I can’t.
Can’t think, can’t move. I can barely breathe.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but the words die on my lips as he inches closer to me. His hand finds my hip, pulling me closer to him, fingers searing me through the fabric of my skirt.
“I’m…”
But he cuts me off, dropping his mouth to mine.
Swear to God, trumpets and harps swell in a romantic interlude in my head, all my focus on the sensation of his lips on mine.
Weston Steele is kissing me.
And it’s fucking amazing.
I’m lost in him, the taste of him—the most delicious temptation on this earth. His lips soft and full, moving over mine with a heated fervor. Like he wants to leave his mark on me forever.
My whole body trembles, a shiver of pleasure rolling through me as I melt into the kiss.
The Kiss, with a capital ‘K’ because that’s how damn good this kiss is.
Weston Steele’s a phenomenal kisser.
Of course he is.
One hand splayed at my hip, he lifts the other and cups my cheek. The gesture’s so tender, so intimate, his skin rough against mine. My skin burns under his touch, and I struggle to swallow.
I don’t know what we’re doing right now, the line we’re crossing. All I know is I want to keep going.
He pauses and staggers back, dropping his hands to his side.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
His skin flushed, bare chest heaving, he holds up his palms. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”
Heart still pounding, I feel like I’m drowning. What just happened ?
This is it—the moment I’ve been warned about my entire life. The exact second when feelings override judgment. When I prove I don’t have what it takes at this elite level.
Focus blurry, priorities shifting.
I should run away, like he did this morning. Save myself, my job, my career.
“Weston—” I lick at my bottom lip, tasting him.
Instead of running, I do something so out of character, so un-Harbor-like. I channel my inner Piper and step forward. Breathless.
“Please don’t be sorry.”
He stares down at me, pupils dark and wide, and I’m afraid I might actually pass out. From nerves, embarrassment, longing…a combo of all of the above. There’s an almost imperceptible tremor in his hands, like he’s holding back.
The fact that someone like him—a professional athlete, always so controlled, so disciplined—is thrown right now sends a rush racing through me.
I’m tired of being afraid. Of my father, what other people might think, their perceptions of me.
Tired of proving my worth by denying every single thing that feels good to me.
His fingers grip my waist with careful restraint, but tension vibrates through him—the same controlled power I witnessed on the ice held in check by sheer willpower. A muscle ticks in his jaw as he fights some sort of internal battle.
“I’ve been trying not to—” His voice catches, rougher than I’ve ever heard it before. He swallows hard, those deep blue eyes never leaving mine. “I shouldn’t…”
But he inches closer, grasping my hips and pulling me into him. His initial touch is tentative, almost questioning. His palm splays across the small of my back, sending a delicious shiver up my spine. My heart’s pounding so hard I’m positive he can feel it through my blouse.
“Fuck it,” he growls, seizing my lips in the most possessive kiss of my life.
All good sense flies away as his hand cups my ass, wetness flooding my panties. His tongue slips into my mouth and he swallows my tiny moan.
In this moment, I give into Weston Steele. Wave the white flag and surrender.
Bye-bye, perfect Coach Hayes’s daughter.
I’m so fucked.