Six months with Miss Green Eyes, and I still can't believe she's mine. The sun beats down on my neck as we stroll along the dock of the Love Beach Yacht Club, Harmony's hand tucked into mine like it was custom-made to fit there. Her auburn curls catch fire in the late afternoon light, and I have to remind myself we're in public. Public means keeping my hands to myself—mostly. The regatta flags snap in the breeze overhead, a rainbow of yacht club colors against the cloudless Charleston sky. Summer in South Carolina, my girl by my side, and a cold beer waiting at the club. Life's pretty damn perfect.
"You're thinking dirty thoughts again," Harmony says, nudging me with her hip. "I can tell by that smirk."
"Can't help it. Scientists say men think about sex every seven seconds." I pull her closer, my hand sliding from her waist to the curve of her hip. "But you're the meteorologist—want to verify that data?"
She rolls those green eyes, but I catch the smile she tries to hide. Six months ago, she would have shut me down with a weather metaphor. Now she leans into me, her body a warm promise against mine.
"Is that what they teach you at the Temple of Pussy?" she whispers, and I nearly trip over my own feet.
That's another change. My weather girl's got a mouth on her these days. And I fucking love it.
"That's definitely not in the curriculum," I say once I recover. "But I might suggest it at the next board meeting."
The yacht club's white-washed deck stretches before us, dotted with tables under blue and white striped umbrellas. The regatta after-party is in full swing, Charleston's summer social scene on proud display. Women in flowy dresses and men in pastel shorts mingle with the sailing crowd still in their gear. The air smells like saltwater, sunscreen, and money.
I spot my teammates at our reserved section—perks of being Charleston hockey royalty. Ryder waves us over, already three beers deep by the look of his grin. Asher's charming some blonde in a sundress, while Coach Mac stands at the railing overlooking the marina, deep in conversation with one of the club officials.
"There's our favorite weather girl!" Ryder shouts as we approach. "Finally convinced her to move to civilization, huh, Lucky?"
Harmony squeezes my hand, a silent reminder to play nice. Not that I need it. These days, I'm so stupidly happy I can't even fake being annoyed with Ryder's bullshit.
"Actually," Harmony says before I can answer, "the National Weather Service needed someone to upgrade the Doppler system at the Charleston station. I merely pointed out that my thesis on coastal weather patterns made me uniquely qualified."
I wrap my arm around her shoulders. "She's being modest. She basically created a job that didn't exist, then convinced them they couldn't survive without her."
The pride in my voice might be embarrassing if I gave a shit. But I don't. My girl is brilliant, and I want everyone to know it.
"Well, we're glad you're here," Asher says, leaving his blonde to join us. "Dakota's been almost tolerable since you two got together."
"Almost," Ryder agrees, handing us each a beer from the ice bucket.
Harmony leans against me, her back to my chest, and I rest my chin on top of her head. It's still new, this casual intimacy in front of my friends. For years, women were accessories, temporary companions easily replaced. Now there's Harmony, who feels like a vital organ I somehow lived without.
The afternoon sun glints off the sailboats bobbing in the marina. Teams from up and down the coast came for the regatta, but the real action is here on the deck, where deals are made, gossip is exchanged, and summer romances begin and end. It's a Charleston tradition, one I've been part of since I was old enough to sneak beers and flirt with rich girls slumming it with a hockey player.
"So," Harmony says, turning to face me, "when were you going to tell them about the apartment?"
I choke mid-sip. "Way to steal my thunder, Green Eyes."
Ryder perks up. "What apartment? You moving out on us, Lucky?"
"Don't tell me you're getting your own place," Asher groans. "Who's going to cook when you're gone?"
I slip my arm around Harmony's waist. "We signed the lease yesterday. Downtown, near the market. Two-bedroom with a view of the harbor."
"He means I signed the lease," Harmony corrects. "Someone had a game in Nashville."
"But I sent my very enthusiastic approval via text," I add, kissing her temple.
Ryder clutches his chest dramatically. "The brotherhood is dying. First Kaleb moves out, now you."
"Kaleb moved out?" Harmony asks, surprised.
"Last month," Asher confirms. "Got some fancy condo near the practice facility. Solo living. Can't say I blame him—living with you two has been like an auditory pornography experience."
Harmony's cheeks flush that perfect shade of pink that still drives me wild. Her fingers toy with the collar of my polo shirt, and I resist the urge to drag her behind the boathouse right now.
"When's moving day?" Ryder asks. "We should have a rager at the house to send you off properly."
"Next weekend," I say. "And no ragers. We have the charity golf tournament on Monday, remember?"
Asher and Ryder exchange looks.
"Who are you and what have you done with Dakota Miles?" Asher asks.
"Seriously," Ryder agrees. "Next you'll be telling us you're shopping for rings."
My body tenses involuntarily, and Harmony notices. Her eyes meet mine, curious but not pushing. We haven't talked marriage. Six months feels too soon, but also not soon enough. The thought doesn't terrify me like it should.
"Let the man enjoy shacking up before you marry him off," Harmony says lightly, saving me from responding. "Besides, I need to make sure he can load a dishwasher properly before I commit to forever."
I dip my head to her ear. "I'll show you what I can load properly later," I murmur, just to feel her shiver against me.
"And there's the Dakota we know," Ryder laughs.
A server passes with a tray of champagne, and I snag two flutes. I hand one to Harmony, raising mine in a toast.
"To new beginnings," I say, eyes locked on hers.
"To new beginnings," she echoes, clinking her glass against mine.
The moment feels significant, like we're sealing something important. Six months ago, I was the team's resident fuck boy, allergic to commitment. Now I'm moving in with a woman who knows my fears and loves me anyway.
"Looks like Coach is giving the club president an earful," Asher observes, nodding toward the railing where Coach Mac's gesturing has grown more animated.
"Probably about using the facility for youth hockey outreach," I say. "He's been on that crusade all summer."
Harmony watches him with thoughtful eyes. "I like your coach. He reminds me of my advisor in grad school—gruff exterior, marshmallow interior."
"Don't let him hear you say marshmallow," I warn. "He'll have us doing suicides until we puke."
We drift toward the bar for refills, Harmony's hand in mine. The yacht club's deck is getting crowded as the sun begins its descent, painting the water in shades of gold and orange. A jazz quartet has set up in the corner, adding a soundtrack to the perfect evening.
"Happy?" I ask her as we wait for our drinks.
She studies me, those green eyes seeing straight through to the question behind my question. Am I enough? Are you sure about this? About us?
Her fingers brush my cheek, and I feel a spark – static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless.
"Deliriously," she answers simply.
The bartender slides our drinks across the polished mahogany. I'm about to suggest we find a quiet corner to watch the sunset when I spot a familiar blond head entering the deck area. Kaleb Jensen, looking uncharacteristically nervous, which is weird enough to make me stare.
"Is that Kaleb?" Harmony asks, following my gaze.
"Yeah, but—" I stop mid-sentence when I notice he's not alone.
A petite brunette stands beside him, her hand clasped firmly in his. She's wearing a vintage-looking sundress and combat boots, an artistic misfit among the country club crowd. Her wavy brown hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she's laughing at something Kaleb says, her entire face lighting up.
"Holy shit," I mutter. "Kaleb brought a date."
Harmony raises an eyebrow. "Is that unusual?"
"Kaleb doesn't date," I explain, still staring. "He hooks up, sure, but he doesn't bring women around the team. Ever."
Our resident Viking looks different somehow—less rigid, more relaxed as he guides his mystery girl through the crowd. He spots us and changes direction, heading our way with determination.
"Incoming," I warn the others, who have also noticed the anomaly that is Kaleb Jensen with a woman in public.
"Afternoon," Kaleb says as they reach us, his voice carrying that hint of Canadian that gets stronger when he's nervous. "Nice day for it."
The girl beside him surveys us with curious blue eyes. There's something familiar about her face that I can't quite place.
"This is Hazel," Kaleb continues, his grip on her hand tightening slightly. "Hazel, these are my teammates—Dakota, Asher, Ryder. And Dakota's girlfriend, Harmony."
Hazel gives a small wave with her free hand. "The famous roommates. Kaleb's told me so much about you all."
"Funny," Ryder says with a grin, "because he's told us absolutely nothing about you."
"That's Kaleb for you," she replies easily. "The strong, silent, secretive type."
There's an edge of playfulness in her voice that makes Kaleb's lips twitch in what might be the beginning of a smile—a genuine one, not the media-ready version he usually displays.
"How did you two meet?" Harmony asks, always the gracious one.
Hazel and Kaleb exchange a look loaded with private meaning.
"Art gallery," Kaleb says.
"He was the only person who spent more than thirty seconds looking at my installation," Hazel adds. "Most people just took photos for Instagram and moved on."
"You're an artist?" Asher asks.
"Sometimes," she answers cryptically. "When I'm not slinging coffee or teaching art to kids at the community center."
I study her more carefully, that nagging sense of familiarity growing stronger. The shape of her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw...
And then it hits me, just as Coach Mac turns from his conversation at the railing and spots us. His expression shifts from surprise to something unreadable as he looks at Kaleb and the girl.
"MacIntyre," I blurt out. "As in Coach Mac's MacIntyre?"
The group falls silent. Kaleb's face hardens into the mask he wears on the ice, while Hazel's chin lifts in defiance.
"That would be me," she confirms. "Hazel MacIntyre. The prodigal daughter returns."
Coach Mac is moving toward us now, his slight limp more pronounced as he hurries across the deck. The tension radiating from Kaleb is palpable, his posture shifting from relaxed to battle-ready.
"Well, shit," Ryder mutters.
Hazel squeezes Kaleb's hand, a silent communication passing between them. "Guess the cat's out of the bag."
"Does Coach know?" Asher asks, looking between them and the approaching storm that is Marcus MacIntyre.
"He does now," Kaleb says grimly.
Harmony leans into me, whispering, "I'm guessing this is bad?"
I nod slightly, unable to tear my eyes from the unfolding drama. "Dating the coach's daughter is hockey suicide. Especially Mac's daughter."
"Especially when Mac has basically been a father figure to Kaleb since he was drafted," Asher adds under his breath.
Coach Mac reaches us, his weathered face unreadable as he takes in the tableau—his daughter's hand firmly in Kaleb's, the protective stance of my normally stoic teammate, the defiant tilt of Hazel's chin.
"Dad," she says, breaking the silence. "Surprise."
The word hangs in the air between them, loaded with history I know nothing about. The jazz quartet plays on, oblivious to the drama unfolding on the deck. Around us, the regatta party continues, but in our little bubble, time seems suspended.
I look at Harmony, finding her green eyes already on me. We've weathered our storm, found our calm center. But for Kaleb and Hazel, it seems the tempest is just beginning.
Coach Mac draws a deep breath, his gaze moving from his daughter to his star goalie. "Jensen," he says, his voice deceptively calm. "My office. 8 AM tomorrow."
And just like that, I know there's a whole new story about to unfold.
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