26. Harbor
HARBOR
I t’s been over forty-eight hours since Weston slipped out of my hotel room, and I still feel the whisper of him everywhere.
His hands, his mouth, his body.
Touching me, holding me, kissing me.
I can’t get him out of my mind.
Don’t want to get him out.
But there’s no room for that today.
Today’s all team polos, smiling for the cameras, and pretending like nothing’s happening between us.
This morning, it’s all about Hockey with Heart—not the man who’s starting to take up too much space in mine.
“Harbor! Where do you want this banner?” One of the admins holds up the new Hockey with Heart banner I designed, shaking the white-and-blue fabric.
“Hanging over there.” I point to the center wall of the rink.
“On it.” She scurries away, and I take a deep, cleansing breath .
In less than an hour, Driftwood Cove’s youth hockey league will be here for the clinic hosted by the Coastal Crushers. Every player’s involved, plus the new coach. And of course, Mr. Prince will be standing on the sideline watching my every move.
Somehow, this event feels more monumental than any presser we’ve had so far. All eyes will be on me—and Weston.
The thought’s not comforting.
“Hello, hello.” Mr. Prince squeezes my shoulder from behind, startling me. I jump about a foot in the air—thank god I’m not wearing heels, or I would’ve definitely faceplanted.
“Hi. Everything’s all set up for the clinic.
” I gesture to the ice, at the orange cones and small extra goals I requested for the occasion.
“I asked Coach Keller to have the team show up about thirty minutes beforehand so I could give them a few pointers on dealing with the kids and the media. And they have sufficient warm-up time, of course.”
“Super.” Prince shoots me a wide grin, clearly pleased. “I’m loving the direction this rebrand is heading. The sponsors are happy—early ticket sales are on track to keep pace with last season. A big feat, considering we relocated to a much smaller market. Well done.”
Warm happiness seeps through me, loosening some of the built-up tension.
“I’m so glad to hear. After today, I anticipate merch sales going up as well.
Having the new mascots, Riptide and Lil Rip, at the clinic today is going to drive those sales.
Couple that with gifting every youth player a T-shirt, plus tickets to Family Night.
We’re building the fanbase, starting now. ”
“No—we’ve already started. The ESPN interview with Weston was so strong, I had other owners calling and asking how I did it. And I have you to thank for that, Harbor. You’ve taken a bad situation and managed to turn things around.”
My cheeks heat at his praise and a rush of relief rolls through me.
Good first period. But you haven’t won the game yet.
Of course my father’s voice intrudes on my happiness. Always reminding me I’m not good enough.
“Thanks, Mr. Prince. Still work to be done, though.” I smile and try to ignore the nagging feeling of not doing enough, being enough.
Players begin rolling into the arena, laughing and talking to each other.
And there’s Weston, suited up in his gear, helmet in hand. Looking as gorgeous as ever.
He glances over at me and my breath hitches under his heated gaze. A stare so intense I almost stop breathing, my heart pounding a mile a minute.
With a quick inhale I hope Mr. Prince doesn’t notice, I try to get my swirling emotions under control.
It’s really damn hard when Weston’s staring at me like that. All primal and possessive, his jaw set, lips slightly parted.
Like he’s ready to set the world on fire and burn everything down for me.
I fidget with my bracelets, the jingling snapping me back down to Earth.
“Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Prince. I need to go check on the camera crew and make sure they’re ready to roll. ”
“For sure. No problem. And Harbor?” He reaches out, gripping my elbow.
“Hmmm?”
“Keep up the good work. Your dedication to the team’s second to none.” He shoots me a wink and I flash him a tight smile.
If only he knew how dedicated you were the other night…
Shoving that voice out of my head, I hustle out to the lobby. Mainly to get away from the watchful eye of Prince and the rest of the team. I need one minute to collect myself before going back into the arena.
“Hey.”
I clock the now-familiar deep voice without turning around, the husky tone sending a thrill through me.
Spinning, I smile at Weston, pulse racing.
“Hey. Everything good? You ready to skate with some tiny people?” I joke, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Yeah, I am. How are you?”
The way he asks the question—eyes flickering over my face, watching for my genuine reaction like he actually gives a damn—I’ve never felt so seen in my entire life.
“I’m good. A little nervous about the rollout, truthfully.” I surprise myself with the honest answer.
A rarity in the PR world.
“Really? Why? Everything looks great.”
I gnaw my bottom lip, contemplating how much to say. “Kids are a wild card. You never know what to expect with those little guys. One wrong move by a player, one slipped swear word, and all the good mojo flies out the window.”
“Right.” Weston nods, his expression serious. “How about this? ”
He takes a step forward, the crisp scent of his cologne curling around me, his fingers lightly touching my arm.
“We go in, smile, and don’t swear. I’ll keep it PG—even if you keep gazing at me like that.”
He winks and I blink up at him, warmth creeping up my neck.
Damn.
He’s too good at this—steadying me and unraveling me in the same breath.
I’m in very dangerous territory right now, every single rule on the verge of being broken.
Champions stick to the playbook. They don’t go off-script.
“Excuse me?” A brunette in tight jeans, a crisp white button down, and stilettos—with scarlet red lips and black sunglasses slung on top of her head—interrupts us. For the second time today, I jump, backing away from Weston as fast as I possibly can.
“Yes?” I swivel to the woman, plastering a tight smile on my face and praying my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. “Are you with the youth league?”
A half-snort echoes loudly through the empty space. “Um, no. I’m looking for my father, Max Prince.”
“Oh. He’s inside the arena.” I point over my shoulder. “I’m Harbor Hayes, the PR consultant.”
“Victoria Prince. His daughter.” She offers her hand and I shake it politely, noticing she doesn’t bother checking out Weston at all.
Clearly not affected by hockey players.
I recognize her type immediately—sharp, polished, probably has an MBA from some impressive Ivy League school.
She’s giving big city vibes all the way, making me feel underdressed in the team polo, jeans, and sneakers.
The kind of professional woman who doesn’t mind taking up space, making tough decisions.
Everything I’ve tried to be, but somehow she makes it look effortless.
“Well, I’ll let you two get back to whatever you were doing.” Her eyes cut from me to Weston, giving us both an appraising stare. “Nice to meet you, Harbor.”
She clicks her way into the arena, the door whooshing closed behind her.
“Oh my god, you don’t think she saw anything, do you?” I fan my face, trying to keep any hint of sweat at bay. I don’t have time to redo my makeup.
“Saw what? Us talking? Totally innocent. Also practical, seeing as how we’re interviewing together after the clinic. Don’t worry about her.” Weston brushes off the exchange like it’s nothing, but anxiety still pings through me.
“Do you know her? She didn’t even acknowledge you.”
He shrugs. “Met her once or twice. She has a real reputation for being an ice queen. Pun fully intended.”
I giggle. “The nickname fits. Wonder why she’s here?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Not my business.”
“Probably a good way to operate.”
The outside doors to the arena fly open again, and this time a flood of excited children pile into the building.
“That’s my cue. Gotta jet. Relax, Hurricane. You’ve got this.” He winks at me and jogs away to prepare for the clinic.
And just like that, he’s gone. Leaving me alone in a room full of kids and chaos, which has absolutely nothing on the storm raging inside my head.
I stand behind the glass, marveling at the magic of the youth hockey clinic.
Weston’s in his element, smiling and laughing with the kids, coaching them. I had nothing to worry about there—the man’s a natural.
He’s got ‘Future Coach’ written all over him.
And future daddy.
Oh my gosh.
Rule #3—no talk about the future.
So why in the hell did I feel myself ovulate just then, when Weston knelt down to the little boy’s level, coaching him on holding his stick?
Not good.
Every single rule’s in jeopardy—and that’s not on Weston.
It’s on me.
Because you want to say fuck the rules.
Be bold for once in your life.
I grip the wall, knuckles white.
I can’t.
I could lose everything. And so could he.
“He’s great with kids, huh?” The local reporter gazes out at Weston on the ice and a sharp pang of jealousy stabs me straight in the chest.
“He is.” My tone’s careful, measured. I’m holding back so much, fearful of giving anything away.
“Is he single?” She twirls her hair, practically salivating.
Shit.
I desperately want to say no, but I’m afraid that will be too obvious.
Instead, I shrug. “I don’t think so.”
Vague, non-committal. Hopefully enough to shut her down .
“I’m definitely going to find out.” Her eyes widen as Weston grins at the blonde boy, giving him a high-five. “He’s yummy.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“So, the post-clinic interview. Should we set up on the side of the rink? Weston stays in skates, Coach Keller, you, and me on the side?” I shift the focus back to work quickly.
The reporter breaks out of her Weston trance, checking her notes. “Sure, that works.”
The clinic winds down, Coach Keller and the team leading the kids in a cheer. Riptide and Lil Rip skate onto the ice for photo ops with the kids and players, the photographers catching it all on camera.
Perfect.
Exactly the picture we want to paint. Pro hockey team engaging with the local youth, boosting community spirit, giving back.
My heart soars, my vision coming alive.
“Ready for the interview?” The reporter taps her headset, ready for her five minutes to shine with Weston.
“Sure.”
Together, we head to the side of the rink and I wave Weston and Coach Keller over.
“You made a lot of kids happy today, Captain.” The reporter bats her long lashes at Weston, and I try to bury my aggravation.
Weston gives her a tight smile. “I hope so. Youth hockey’s such a critical part of the game. Happy to give back.”
The tension in my shoulders loosens at his words.
Great response.
Even better, he seems unphased by her flirtatious charm.
“Coach, what’s your vision for the upcoming season? New locale, new-to-you team looking to rebuild after a disastrous—and scandalous—end to last season…” Her voice trails off, the words hanging in the air for a second before Coach Keller responds.
“We’re aiming for the Cup. Each game better than the last. And we want Driftwood Cove with us every step of the way.”
Damn.
Another perfect answer.
“Ms. Hayes, you’re the new face of the Coastal Crushers administrative team. But you’re in no way new to the game. Your father’s the legendary Coach Doug Hayes. How does it feel to be embroiled in the professional game of hockey yourself, with that mantle resting heavy on your shoulders?”
Of course my question’s difficult—and personal. Not the easy shots both the guys had.
I smooth my hair over my shoulder, standing tall. “It feels amazing, actually. I love hockey—always have. The transition’s been seamless and I look forward to a fantastic season with this stellar team in this amazing town.”
Too many superlatives, Harbor. Overcompensating.
“I mean, who could blame you? This team is amazing. So talented.” The reporter fawns over Weston, and I swallow down a little bit of vomit.
“Yes, they are. The team’s committed to the local community and we’re excited to invite every Driftwood Cove family to Opening Night!” I beam at the camera, praying the interview’s almost over.
Mercifully, Riptide and Lil Rip skate over and ham it up. The cameras cut to the mascots, and the reporter follows close behind .
“Thanks, guys.” I turn to Coach Keller and Weston. “I appreciate the help with the local media.”
“Sure, no problem.” Weston rakes his hand through his hair, relaxed and smiling.
“Glad this worked out. An event like this during pre-season’s fine. Once we get rolling, we’ll have to keep the distractions to a minimum.” Keller’s tone is gruff and no-nonsense as he flicks his eyes to mine, then Weston’s.
“Right.” I nod, trying not to spiral. Is he talking about the clinic? The interview?
Or is this a veiled warning?
“Well, thanks again, Coach. Looking forward to a fantastic season.”
He tips his chin at me and stalks away without another word, leaving me and Weston alone together.
Dropping my voice to a whisper, I hiss, “Do you think he knows anything? Was that a threat?”
Weston shakes his head, careful not to look at me while the cameras roll. “No. He’s focused on winning. Don’t worry, Hurricane.”
Despite his reassurances, I am worried.
Really fucking worried.
I’ve dealt with a lot of scandals in my career, but none have felt quite this personal.
Because this time, my life’s on the line—and I’ve never had so much at stake.