Page 64 of The Girlfriend Zone

He’s seen it before, of course. It’s not a secret. But we usually erase it fast when we’re just messing around.

The man in charge cocks his head and clears his throat. “The whiteboard has a name?”

The DickNose board is practically fight club—known but never mentioned in front of management. But if I’m going to make co-captain, I figure I’d better own it.

“Yes, sir,” I say, standing up straight. “And we take very good care of it.”

Coach raises an eyebrow. “Is that right? And what exactly are you using it for?”

“Notes, sir. On ways to improve our game,” I say, squaring my shoulders, and taking one for the team.

“Notes, huh?” he says, walking deeper into the locker room and eyeing the list. “What’s up there right now, for instance?”

I exchange a quick, desperate look with Rowan. “One-legged drills, sir.”

Coach’s lips twitch, as if he’s barely holding back asmirk. “That sounds like a fantastic warmup. Why don’t you all give it a try?”

The groans from the veterans echo around the room, long and loud.

And just like that, my first shot at “leadership” has all of us—everyone but the rookies—doing one-legged drills on the ice.

21

WELCOME BACK

Leighton

With an ankle bracelet burning a hole in my pocket, I walk down the corridor alongside a lineup of powerhouse women. Eleanor Greer, the owner, leads the way, her stride confident and steady. Next to her is Clementine Carmichael, our sharp, no-nonsense British GM, and Zaire Mandavi, the VP of Communications. Chanda’s here too, organizing every detail, and Everly walks beside me, nodding along as we listen to Eleanor’s goals for the season. Today’s a big PR day, and Eleanor’s energy is contagious, so I try not to give another thought to Miles’s unexpected gift.

“I didn’t trade for Tyler Falcon this summer to lose,” Eleanor says, stopping at the edge of the tunnel. Her eyes are fierce as she surveys the arena, but her tone is full of her trademark boundless zeal. “I traded to win.” She gestures to Zaire and Chanda. “And I want our marketing to reflect that—bold energy, passion, the excitement of anew season. Not just the Tyler trade, but the whole attitude of this team. Fierce, and electric. Are we up to it?”

“Absolutely,” Zaire says, nodding with confidence. “We’re ready to showcase that energy from day one.”

“And the photos will bring that to life too,” Chanda adds.

Eleanor’s face softens just a bit. “Excellent. Let’s see what we can capture today.” She turns to lead the others down to the ice.

Chanda tells me to stay back as she follows them down too, but I’m already setting up in the tunnel. Today, my job is to capture the guys as they head out for their first practice—those exciting shots that tell fans,We’re stoked to be back.

“Go get ’em,”Everly mouths before she joins the others. I nod, giving her a thumbs-up. I so have this. I start framing shots in my head the way I would for a boudoir session—anticipating the poses, the mood, the angle that will capture just the right moment.

Then, the faint scent of soap mixed with a hint of sandalwood reaches me, sending my senses into overdrive. I glance up, and my breath catches when I see Miles striding toward me in full gear, towering in his skates, his broad shoulders filling out his Sea Dogs jersey. I’ve seen him in uniform before, but up close, it’s something else. That royal blue looks too good on him, making my chest flutter and my stomach flip. Or maybe it’s just him. Absently, I run a hand down the front pocket of my jeans, feeling the faint outline of the bag with the bracelet.

Miles stops barely a foot away, face serious, as if he’s got important business to discuss. “We’re pranking the rookies today, and I volunteered to give you the inside scoop,” he says in that deep, businesslike tone.

I match his professionalism with a smirk. “Sounds fun. So, you want pics, I presume?”

“Yes, but…” He pauses, a wry smile breaking through. “Your dad got to us first.”

I snort-laugh before I can help it. Miles shrugs with athat’s lifeexpression, nodding toward the ice. “You’ll see.”

As he heads out, I lift my camera, capturing the perfect shot of him walking through the tunnel, a man on a mission. One by one, the rest of the guys follow, game faces on, but I catch the faint grumbles and eye rolls, a mix of annoyance and resignation.

After snapping a few more shots, I hustle up into the stands, adjusting my camera settings as I slide into the second row, staying on my feet. Anticipation buzzes through me as the guys fly around the rink, taking a few practice laps, getting their ice legs back. Just as I get set up, my dad joins them on the ice in skates and a warm-up suit. That’s unusual—most of the time he sends an assistant coach out to run the practices. This time he’s joined by a row of rookies, who look both nervous and eager as they wait by the boards.

He blows his whistle, sharp and clear, then shouts, “Drills, vets. Show the rookies how it’s done.”

Even from a distance, Asher’s clearly sighing heavily. Max is rolling his eyes. I imagine they’re all groaning out loud, the kind of reluctant groan that comes from getting played by someone sharper, wiser, older. Without another word, they each stick one leg out behind them, balancing awkwardly before racing down the ice on one leg. The sound of their blades slicing into the ice cuts through the crisp air, even reachingmyears.

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