Page 24 of The Girlfriend Zone

She laughs lightly as we get out of the car. “We’ll see.”

“I’m sure we will.” I grab the door to my home, holding it open for her, then flicking on the interior lights. Once inside, her gaze lingers on the hoodies hanging on the mudroom hooks, and she raises her brows slightly. “Sea Dogs fan?”

“You could say that,” I say.

“Same,” she replies.

That’s a relief. Maybe she’s known I play all along but hasn’t wanted to make a thing of it. Fine by me. I untie my boots, and she slips off her shoes, following me into the living room, her eyes widening just a bit as she looks around at the open-floor plan, with the kitchen spilling into the living room. The open layout, eco-friendly furniture, and minimalist decor make it feel simple butmodern, and the view overlooking the water doesn’t hurt.

Here comes that awkward moment when someone realizes that I make enough money to afford a sweet place. When they become more interested in the status than the person.

But instead she says, “This is…nice. Very you.”

And that’s it. That’s all.

“Thank you. I like it here. Make yourself at home,” I say, heading to the kitchen. “Want some wine? Or beer?”

“White if you have it,” she says.

“I do,” I say, spinning around to grab a bottle from the wine fridge as she drifts over to the couch and picks up a few framed photos on the end table.

I uncork the bottle, mentally rehearsing how I’m going to bring up my career. My place doesn’t scream “hockey player”—no pucks or jerseys on display. Just doesn’t feel necessary. But dropping the intel in casual convo can get awkward and it has in the past. I’ve seen the switch flip before—someone interested in “Miles” becomes starry-eyed over “Miles the hockey player,” talking about the money or asking for tickets. And that’s the last thing I want with her.

She picks up a framed photo. “Is this your sister with theGive Plants a Chancebumper sticker on the beer tap?”

I can’t see the pic from here, but I’m sure which one it is. “Yes. That’s Charlie. She owns a punk rock vegan bar in Darling Springs.”

“And I love her already,” Leighton says, then sets it down.

“So, I’m heading out of town tomorrow,” I say, hoping to steer things that way as I bring her the glass.

She takes it with athank youthen picks up a photo ofmy mom and Harvey with their four Chihuahuas. And that could be a good entry. “They’re cute.”

“My mom and stepdad. They have four rescue Chihuahuas. They like to travel, and sometimes I dog-sit when I’m in town,” I say, then return to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients from the fridge. “I travel a lot for my job.”

After she takes a sip, she tilts her head thoughtfully. “Huh. That’s not typical for your line of work, is it?”

So, she doesn’t know what I do—or maybe she knows something and just doesn’t care. Kind of refreshing, really.

“Actually, it’s pretty normal,” I say, grabbing a jar of marinated artichokes and a pepper. She’s studying another photo now, the one of my brother and me at a Supernova game. Tyler’s in his game gear; I wasn’t playing that night, so I’m just in a Sea Dogs hoodie in the picture.

Her eyes flick to me, widening with recognition as she holds up a photo. “Is this you and…a Supernova?”

I smile, setting down the knife. This is the perfect moment to explain things since she seems to be a hockey fan. “Yeah, my brother’s on the Los Angeles team. I, uh…play hockey too.” I try to read her expression as she processes this.

Her face goes pale, and her gaze shifts down to the food I’m chopping on the cutting board. “You’re…not a chef?”

I frown. So there was something to her chef comment earlier. I pick up the jar of artichokes, loosening the top. “No. You called me a chef earlier. Why did you think that?”

She stares at me, her voice almost a whisper. “Birdie told me you were one—a chef.” Her voice is heavy, full of dread. “You’re not just a Sea Dogs fan,” she says, absentlywaving her hand to where the hoodies hang. “You play for Noah McBride?”

I blink. I didn’t expect her to jump straight to the coach. “Yes. Are you a big fan of his?”

Only that hardly adds up. He played more than a decade ago.

“You could say that,” she says, her voice tight. “He’s my dad.”

The jar of artichokes slips from my hand, hitting the floor with a clatter. For the first time all day, I have no words.

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