Page 33 of The Girlfriend Zone

I’m both sad and relieved when he doesn’t.

12

DOG YEARS

Miles

Don’t look at her.

Do not look at her.

Do notfuckinglook at her.

That’s what I tell myself all morning as I pull weeds and plant pea shoots for The Garden Society at an abandoned lot turned community garden on the edge of the Mission District.

I’m here with a bunch of guys from the team and a few from the Renegades football team too. Everly set this up, and I know it’s part of her efforts to give our goalie, Max, a makeover. He’s grumpy as hell and needs an image boost, so she’s been tasked with that, and it looks like she hired Leighton to snap promo pics for this community outreach event.

I really should just focus on these clowns I play hockey with and not on the beautiful brunette. “Hey, Callahan, you thinking of planting some lucky coinshere?” I tease, giving Asher a hard time. The winger is the walking definition of superstition.

“Maybe you should. Might help your prospects,” Max tosses back.

Ouch. He can’t know it hits below the belt. “Nothing wrong with luck,” I say. The older I get, the more I learn to happily take the days when fortune is on my side.

As Wesley digs a small hole for a plant, he tosses a wry look my way. “True, true. And since you’re older, Falcon, we should listen when you speak from the fountain of old-dude wisdom.”

I thump him on the side of the head. “Did that hurt?”

“Thathurt,” he whines.

“Good, it was supposed to.”

“Old dudes know how to hit,” Max deadpans.

I narrow my eyes at our goalie. “I’m only a few years older than you, asshole.”

Max shrugs. “But you know how it is for hockey players. Years are like dog years. So you’re…” He pauses, thinking.

“Twenty-one years older than you,” Asher supplies to Max, who’s thirty.

I point at Asher, who’s supposed to be the nice guy. “And you’re thirty-two, asshole. You’re closer in age to me.”

“Still seven years younger in dog years,” he says.

“That’s it. We’ll have a bench-press contest tomorrow,” I say, egging them on.

“So you can get enough sleep first, right?” Wesley asks, smirking.

I have no choice. I punch his arm, but then I hear the click of a camera. It’s Leighton, and she’s smiling serenely.

“Are you publishing that?” I ask, but my voice doesn’t sound like it’s coming from me. It sounds like I’m tryingtoo hard to talk normally. Or maybe more like I’m trying too hard to keep it even, to talk to her like anyone else would. But how the fuck would my teammates talk to her? How the hell do they talk to the coach’s daughter? I’ve got to get out of my head around her. Especially since she’s here in a work capacity, and if she’s here now, she might be around again.

She tilts her head, an amused look turning her lips. “Don’t worry, I don’t publish everything I shoot. But it’s cute to get pictures of you guys clowning around. How would you feel about this?” She bends to show us a picture of us goofing off. “I’ll need Everly’s approval, of course, but I think it’s fun.”

She’s not looking at me as she says this, and I stay quiet too, because I don’t want to let on what I’m thinking about. My mind has wandered to the pictures she took of us. The ones she was supposed to send me. I can’t think of anything but the one time I stood right next to her, looking at pictures on the back of her camera.

Those images are lodged in my head the rest of the morning as we plant peas and other veggies. They won’t leave, and the more I think about them, the more I have to know. What did she do with those pictures?

Later, when the event wraps up, she’s packing up her gear. I walk past, then stop, unable to resist. “Do you need a ride?” I ask, my voice low but my eyes locked on hers so she can read my face if she needs to.

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