Page 58 of The Girlfriend Zone

“He did tell me never to date a hockey player.”

“What a surprise. He said the same to me the other day.Hockey players can be charming,” I say, imitating him and his euphemisms.

“That’s so him.”

“And it’s sound advice,” I say, hoping that’ll end the topic.

But Riley doesn’t give up so easily. “Like I said, Miles is the hot one, so…I could kind of see you with him.”

Her comment catches me off guard. Even my sister thinks we’d be a good match. And maybe, if things were different—if I had a different last name—I’d be able to think so too. Which means I’m going to have to double down on the friendship plans with Miles in, oh, say, thirty minutes when I arrive at work.

“You’ve always had a good imagination,” I say, giving her a quick squeeze as we reach her school. “Now go, before you’re late.”

Once she’s past the doors, I check my phone. There’s a text from my father with a photo he’s snapped on his digital photo frame, likely this morning. It’s a picture of me heading into work at the boba shop I worked at during high school.Look what my frame showed me this morning! Afirst day of work pic! Good luck today!

I smile from the note. I think it’s the only time Coach McBride uses exclamation points—with his daughters.

With my camera bag slung over my shoulder and my brand-new temporary employee badge in my hand, I stop at the doors into the corridor of the arena that leads to the locker room, the weight room, the rink. I’ve been here a hundred times, but this is the first time my stomach has flipped like a pancake so many times. I’m not usually a nervous person, but I’m made of nothing but jitters right now.

It’s not simply the Miles factor. It’s that I want to prove I belong here—that I’m not a daddy’s girl or a nepo baby. It’s not like anyone’s said it outright, but I know what people might think. And that sliver of doubt, that littlewhat if, keeps gnawing at me. And there’s this bit of a worry too—what if I don’t hear something someone says?

I swallow before I open the door, slide a hand into my jeans pocket, and check my phone. My hearing aids are fully charged, and the program is set for speech. It’ll be fine. I don’t usually have a problem. And besides, pro athletes aren’t usually soft-spoken.

And really, it’s not like askingwhat did you sayis the worst thing.

I tuck my hair over my ear, then stop, breathe, and untuck it. Better to let it fall long and loose.

I’m ready, and the second I push open the door, I spot Everly on the other side. She’s laughing with Jenna Nguyen, the promotions manager, who wears glasses and has her sleek black hair cinched back in a clip, and Chanda Kumar, the director of marketing. Chanda’s wearing a bright red blazer over her blouse, and has a tablet in hand, her usual energy practically buzzing in the air around her as she scrolls through notes, presumably. I head over to them. I know them all already, but I still feel all the first-day-of-school vibes.

When I arrive, Everly turns her gaze to me. She’s friendly but professional as she says, “Hey, Leighton. Welcome to the team. We have a busy day for you.”

“I’m ready,” I say, and I slough off all my nerves since Iamready. Ready to focus on work and to safeguard my future. Starting with photos for a series of social media posts around the “we’re back” theme.

I’ve got the talent, the vision. I’ve been doing this long before I ever thought about working here. This is just another gig. Another opportunity.

Twenty minutes later, I'm walking into the weight room to take pictures of the guys working out. The smell of rubber mats and a hint of fresh laundry fills the air. Machines line the walls, clanging as weights are adjusted, while a couple of players—Hugo, one of the defensemen, and Alexei, usually a center on the second line—laugh in the corner, catching their breath between sets. Rowan, aspromised by Riley, is stoic as he finishes up some preacher curls next to them.

And then I see Miles pushing off a weight bench, standing, taking off his shirt.

My pulse jackhammers.

Must. Not. Stare.

This is a test. The universe is simply testing me. And really, I’ve been around hockey players my whole life.

I ignore the curl of lust twisting through my veins. Stepping farther into the room, I take a quick, steadying breath, and say, “Hi, guys. I’m Leighton.”

Kill me now.

My voice comes out all annoyingly breathy. My cheeks flush as I square my shoulders, soldiering on and willing the splash of heat to get the fuck off my face.

“I’m a photographer,” I add, waggling my Nikon bag like it’s show-and-tell in kindergarten, but I still sound high-pitched, like talking to a group of high-octane, testosterone-fueled elite athletes is all new to me. “I’ll be here taking all sorts of promo photos throughout training camp, pre-season, and the start of the season. And then for a few months.”

And…I sound like a kid listing the timeline of my job, like anyone cares.

I feel even more like one when Chanda steps in beside me, saving everyone from my over-eager prattling. “Leighton’s filling in for Mako. So, just do your thing, guys. I’ll send out a daily schedule of photo opps, but expect that she’ll be taking pics of drills, practices, ice time, and lots of fun behind-the-scenes stuff,” she says, and I focus on the whole weight room, and all the guys in here, rather than the one with his shirt off, his hand resting on the silver bar—the one who’s looking at me. “Anything you don’t want posted, just let us know,” Chanda adds. “But we’ll start with the workout since, well, fans love a workout shot. Good?”

Why didn’t I just say that? She sent me those details too.

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