Page 35 of The Girlfriend Zone

That night, I’m dog-sitting for my mom and Harvey, so I’m walking their four rescue Chihuahuas—Bippity, Boppity, Boo, and Cindy—along Marina Green when my phone pings. It’s a message from Leighton. I know I should focus on these tiny terrors, let them get their walk, but every fiber in me wants to check. With each ounce of self-control, I ignore it while they finish up.

The second I get home, I unclip their leashes, send them off to their heated dog beds—because of course they have heated dog beds—and finally open the message.

I wasnotprepared.

Holy shit, I was not prepared for this. And I need to enjoy the fuck out of it. I head over to a dark oak cabinet next to the TV I rarely watch, grab a bottle of scotch from my collection of the finest vintages, and pour two fingers. With the amber liquid in the tumbler, I return to the couch and take a long pull that I savor, feeling the good burn. Then, I open the pictures again, ready to savor them. As I look, my breath catches, a fire starting, then blazing in my chest as I scroll through the shots, each one more intense than the last.

One by one, I study every frame: the way I looked at her, the way I wanted her, the way I moved behind her, my hands brushing her arms. Then, there it is—the moment I kissed her, my hand on her throat, the trust inher gaze, and her whispered desires captured in every pixel.

I can’t take it much longer. I’m rock hard and far too aroused while my mom’s dogs watch me staring greedily at the photos. Setting down the glass on the coffee table, I replay my memories of the day, then…fuck it.

It won’t be the first time I’ve done this to thoughts of Leighton. Probably won’t be the last. I unzip my jeans, take out my aching shaft, and tug.

It’s a relief, but only for a few seconds. I breathe out hard, giving in to the lust that grips me, the want I feel for her…my coach’s daughter.

For a few seconds, I freeze over those words—coach’s daughter.

Don’t go there again. Get it together. Stop fucking thinking of her.

But the dick is sometimes stronger than the will.

I ignore that voice because it doesn’t matter what I do when I’m home alone. It’s what I do when I’m with her that counts. I haven’t crossed the line again. And baggage or no baggage, we’re not going to be a thing. But her admission that she looks at the pictures too? It’s what I wanted. It’s what I needed. It’s also all I can have of her.

So what’s the harm in giving in tonight? Faster, my fist shuttling harder, I jerk to the pictures of Leighton melting in my arms. To her asking for what she needed. To me giving it to her.

To us knowing what was happening between us that one perfect day.

But really, I just need to finally,fucking finally, get that day out of my system.

That’s easy enough for the next couple months since I don’t see her. I don’t run into her at any more promo events. I don’t bump into her at High Kick, though I definitely try. But I’m never there when she’s taking her pictures for the week. I don’t spot her at any games. She doesn’t text me again.

I don’t text her.

Impressive, I know.

I keep busy with hockey of course, and geocaching with a local club of fellow cachers, and taking some classes at a local university when I have free time. I’ve always liked school, and I try to take a new class every few years, usually in psychology or something related. My teammates don’t call me The Professor for nothing. In January, I enter the Annual Win a Date With a Player auction, along with Asher, who’s determined to go for the highest bid to keep his streak alive. I’ve done this event since I joined the team. The proceeds go to local nonprofits—animal rescues, food drives, and our team’s support for libraries.

As I’m striding across the stage at a fancy hotel in the city, the color commentator for our broadcast partner touts my stats, then talks up my love of hiking, playing pool, and my affection for my hometown of Seattle. But when I spot Leighton, off to the side in the front row, snapping pictures, I falter, pausing for a step.

I do my best to tear my gaze away, and when the emcee mentions I like urban treasure hunts, my chest tightens. I know I won’t be taking the winner geocaching on a date.

When a woman bids sixty-five thousand dollars on me and wins, I figure that’s good money for a good cause. Butsomething about it feels wrong, especially when Leighton turns her gaze away instantly.

At the end of the auction, after I’ve given Everly my info for the winner, she says, “We need a pic with you and the winner.”

Natasha, the woman who won, tells me how much she loves the Sea Dogs, how excited she is, how she’s followed my career from the start, and how glad she is that this team picked me up. She’s nice—really, she is. And she’s not the coach’s daughter.

But I still feel like a piece of crap when Leighton takes our photo backstage. She’s all business, entirely unreadable as she takes the pictures for socials.

“Thank you, Miles. Thank you, Natasha,” Leighton says, then spins on her heel and heads off. But she’s wearing those earrings—and that bracelet.

I can’t read her, but it feels vitally important that she knows my mind. I’m not even sure why, but maybe it’s this pressure in my chest. Maybe I can let go of it if I just…say something.

I loosen my tie but don’t head for the parking garage. I march down the hallway, searching for her, and catch her as she’s leaving the hotel. In the quiet hallway, I say her name but she must not hear me so I reach out and grab her arm. She startles.

“Sorry,” I say, looking around. Coast is clear. “I wasn’t loud enough.” I feel bad now.

“It’s okay,” she says, then shrugs like she’s sayingit happens.

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