34. Harbor
HARBOR
M iraculously, I keep the train on the rails for a few more weeks. We’re closing in on the first preseason game, and the party incident is in the rearview.
Beau Lawson officially dropped the charges two days ago, thanks to the efforts of legal.
Bennett’s still benched for the first two games of the season until the league closes their investigation. But he swears it’s good for his aura and not to worry about it.
Piper flew out to her next assignment last week, and her absence left a gaping hole in my life. I miss her now more than ever. Especially since I’m keeping my distance from Weston.
I’m not what he needs right now, and we both know it.
We’ve texted and Facetimed a lot, and he’s snuck over to the hotel a couple of times since Piper left.
But seeing him in public is too risky.
Even kissing in my hotel room feels dangerous .
Once the season kicks off, we’ll reassess. Revisit the rules. Maybe make new ones.
Until then, we’re trapped in the neutral zone—no shots, no movement, just waiting.
I hate it.
But I can’t blow up his life. Not any more than I already have.
So I do what I’ve always done—throw myself into my job. I line up a dozen community events, visit local charities and meet the people in charge. I schedule player media days, coach the rookie on handling the press, process media credentials.
The best part? I get to a zero inbox.
#goals.
Life’s not exactly great, but it’s manageable. Doable. Livable.
I’m at the office sipping my first cup of coffee and flipping through photos from last night’s practice to be used in the pre-game montage.
I linger on the photo of Weston—he’s crouched down over the puck, sweat beading on his brow.
Intensity radiates off the screen and I click the box to select the image.
A knock on my door jerks me out of my trance.
“Come in.” I don’t bother turning around, still buried under a stack of player bios demanding the perfect image.
“Harbor, you’re going to want to see this.”
Julianne, one of the PR assistants, hands me her cell. Her voice is oddly flat. Off. My stomach clenches, the coffee swirling.
I glance at the screen and my blood runs ice-cold.
A video thumbnail, frozen.
Me and Weston.
He’s leaning in, hand on my waist, forehead nearly touching mine. I’m gazing up at him, lips parted, dress sliding off my shoulder.
The hallway behind us is Weston’s house. That same night. Right after we slipped out of his bedroom.
Different angle, even worse optics.
We never saw a camera, didn’t think to confiscate cell phones.
I swallow hard, my vision tunneling.
Because that caption? Already viral.
Turns out the team’s biggest distraction was in-house.
#Steelescandal #CrushersCrisis #offside #fraternizingmuch
Vomit rises in my throat and I lean over, retching into the trash can next to my desk. Waves of nausea roll through me and sweat beads at the nape of my neck.
No.
No, no, no.
Not after everything we just went through. We weathered the storm, things were practically back to normal. The season’s locked and loaded.
And now this.
Julianne rubs my back, her light touch a physical reminder she’s still here, watching me unravel.
I’ve never lost my grip like this before.
You’ve never been personally involved before.
In love with the captain of the team.
Swiping at the corner of my mouth, acid burning my throat, I sit up. Black dots dance at the corner of my vision and I’m hot and dizzy.
“Harbor…” Julianne’s voice is quiet and far away. The room spins and I close my eyes, praying this is a nightmare. Soon, very soon, I’ll wake up and this will all be over .
“Harbor!” She shakes my shoulder and I come to, jerking in the chair. “I’m calling the trainer.”
“No. Please don’t.” My voice is a harsh whisper.
“Let me at least get you some water.”
I nod weakly. “Thanks.”
She scurries out of the room and I hunch over, head in hands. Hot tears prick my eyes, escaping down onto my cheeks.
I’m so fucked.
You’ll never have what it takes, Harbor.
My father was right.
I don’t have what it takes to be in professional hockey, to win. I let my personal desires come before my professional duties and look what happened.
My whole world’s burning down.
And Weston’s caught in the blaze.
The incessant buzz of my cell tells me everything I need to know.
The whole world knows about my illicit relationship with Weston Steele.
And I can’t spin this.
No matter how hard I try—what I say or do—it’s going to come off as disingenuous. Like a giant cover-up.
My credibility is shot to hell.
I stare at the photo of Weston on my computer screen and my chest cracks wide open. Aching.
For what we had, what could have been.
I wonder if he’s seen it. If he knows I’m the reason his cell won’t stop buzzing. I hope he hates me for it.
This would be easier if he did.
I know what I need to do.
And it’s the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever had to do in my entire life .
The sharp trill of my cell ringing shocks me from my pity party.
“Harbor. My office. Now,” Prince barks down the line, solidifying my decision.
With a deep, shuddery breath, I stand up and the world tilts on its axis for a second time. I grab the edge of my desk and steady myself.
You can do hard things, Harbor.
Repeating the mantra over and over again, I make my way through the maze of hallways to Prince’s office. I rap on the door and wait.
“Come in.”
He’s pacing his office, ESPN playing on the TV mounted in the corner. I catch a glimpse of the headline ticker rolling across the screen and force down another round of nausea: CRUSHERS IN CRISIS AGAIN: PLAYER ROMANCE LEAKED AHEAD OF SEASON OPENER
FUCK.
My entire body burns with humiliation as the words scroll past.
I thought I could handle this, all of it.
I was so, so wrong.
“Close the door behind you.” His voice is cold, all traces of the friendly boss gone.
I shut the heavy door and take the seat he offers.
“I don’t need to explain to you how bad this is.”
Resisting the urge to scrunch my eyes shut, I shake my head. “No, sir. You do not.”
“To say I’m disappointed is the biggest understatement of the year.
All I want—all I ever wanted—was a winning fucking season.
Clean, scandal-free. What I got was this circus.
And from Coach Doug Hayes’s daughter, no less.
My PR consultant sleeping with the captain of my team.
” He frowns, and my stomach knots so tight it hurts.
He holds up his hands. “Don’t deny nor confirm that statement. Plausible deniability. I don’t want to know.”
The truth burns like poison as I simmer in my shame and regret. Prince folds his arms over his starched dress shirt, his frown lines deeper than ever.
“This has gone beyond distraction, Harbor. I can’t have?—”
I feel the words hovering in the air, the finality in his tone.
“You don’t need to say it.” I swallow over the lump in my throat, my breath catching as I fight back tears.
The team needs a clean slate. Weston needs a chance to be the captain without scandal hanging over him. This isn’t just about preserving my dignity—I need to save Weston’s career from the wreckage I created.
Prince blinks at me as I rise, straightening my shoulders.
“I’ll resign, effectively immediately. But please let me tell the team. I owe them that much.”
He huffs out a sigh. “Fine. Draft a statement to the press, while you’re at it. Get it to me within the hour.”
“Will do.” Twisting my bracelets, I walk over to the door with as much dignity as I can muster.
“Harbor—”
I pause at the door. “You did good work. But sometimes that’s not enough.”
Biting my lip, I nod. “It’s not about the work anymore.”
Then I leave before he can say anything else.