Page 105 of The Girlfriend Zone

It takes a second, but he cracks a grin. I haven’t broken player code, and he knows I won’t give him anything juicier.

Another reporter—gruff, no-nonsense—doesn’t let up. “Bishop looked pissed out there.”

I pause, raising an eyebrow. “Is that a question?”

The reporter doubles down. “Why was he so pissed?”

I lean back slightly, keeping my expression neutral. “His socks were cold, I’m guessing.”

A ripple of chuckles moves through the room, but one or two reporters look annoyed. Doesn’t matter. I’m done discussing it. I don’t like playing diplomat, but it’s part ofthe job—protecting the team on and off the ice. Sometimes that means playing verbal pinball with reporters too.

Another voice cuts in. “Did Delacroix’s comments fuel your performance tonight?”

That’s a fair question. A damn good one too. But I know better than to show my hand. So I keep my cards close to my chest. “Everything fuels me,” I reply evenly. “That’s the beauty of hockey—it’s unpredictable, and you use it to your advantage.”

The follow-up comes fast. “When you played for Vancouver, you tore your ACL. How’s it holding up now?”

I clench my jaw briefly. I’ll never escape that question. But showing frustration doesn’t help anyone. I take a breath and let it go, reminding myself it’s a valid thing for him to ask.

I rap my knuckles lightly on the table, grounding myself for a beat. “No complaints,” I say, but I know that’s not enough. Injuriesarea big deal, especially major ones, and so is the work it takes to recover. They can haunt you, but they can also define you. If I downplay the injury, I disrespect all the effort I—and everyone who helped me—put in. “I work hard to stay healthy. Injuries like that—they take you out physically, sure, but mentally too. You don’t forget what it’s like to sit out for months. I’m grateful to be on the other side of it, but I take nothing for granted.”

The room goes quiet for a moment, the weight of those words settling before Coach steps in to wrap up the presser.

As I head for the bus a little later, Coach catches me near the locker room. His voice is low, deliberate. “Good job out there.”

The way he says it, I know he’s not just talking about the game. He’s talking about protecting Bishop—in the presser and on the ice. About being honest when it counted. Coming from him, those words mean everything.

“Thank you, sir,” I say.

That’s it. No more mention of the potential co-captain assignment. He’ll decide when he’s ready—and I’ll just have to hope like hell I’m up to the task.

Later, on the plane, as the lights of Montreal flicker and shrink below us, my phone buzzes. A photo pops up from Leighton. I wait briefly for that flicker of guilt. For the unease that follows it—the sense that I need to keep all these feelings in check. That Ioughtto resist her. But those emotions don’t come. I feel only the warm, hazy wish to connect with her.

I click on the photo, guilt-free. It’s a shot of my bed, covered in four Chihuahuas sprawled like they own the place, with the caption:They regret nothing.

Fuck…I can’t help it. I grin too big, angling the phone away even though no one’s looking in the dim light of this short flight to Toronto.

It’s not just the photo. It’s that she knows me. She knows what I need after a game, and she gave it to me.

I probably should be thinking about her relationship with her dad, and my relationship with him too. I ought to be thinking about my career—the work, time, sweat, and tears I put into it—and how grateful I am to still have it, like I told the media tonight. I should definitely be wary of the past, and all the ways romance can go wrong.

And yet—it’s like I’m a little bit high, a little bit hooked. I don’t dwell on any of that. And I don’t look herdad’s way, not once, as I type back:I’m calling you later when I land.

The thing about travel is that sometimes time zones work in your favor. By the time I flop down onto the king-size bed in my Toronto hotel room, it’s nearly one a.m. But on the West Coast, it’s only ten p.m., still early enough to call Leighton.

I toe off my shoes and loosen my tie, the dim light in the room perfectly matching my mood.

I don’t bother telling myself I’m only checking in with the dog-sitter. Settling back against the headboard, I hit Leighton’s contact. She answers almost immediately.

“So, Delacroix was talking shit about Bishop’s mom?”

I love that she cuts straight to the chase. “However did you know?”

“An educated guess. I know what asshole hockey players are like.”

“You’d be right. Did you catch the whole post-game press conference?”

“I did.”

---