Page 79 of The Girlfriend Zone

Miles: Fuck me.

I roll my lips together, savoring his reaction. Then another drops.

Miles: You’re so fucking sexy.

My smile grows stupidly bigger. A few minutes later, my phone pings once again.

Miles: It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last that a picture of you has come in quite handy.

25

THE GREAT SOCK DEBATE

Miles

I could really use a Border Collie.

The second I step into the locker room for our season opener on a Wednesday in early October, it’s buzzing with noise—gear clattering, banter flying. Herding these guys for the opening night team pic feels like wrangling twenty-plus rowdy sheep. A canine companion would make this so much easier.

But Coach asked me to round everyone up, so here I am.

“Boys,” I call out, stepping into the chaos, but my voice barely registers over Hugo’s loud declaration.

“For once and for all: you can wear sandals with a suit,” Hugo argues from his locker, peeling off a sock with cartoon cupcakes on it, “but you can’t wear socks and sandals with a suit.”

“Why are you discriminating against socks?” Wesley shoots back, yanking off his Corgi-butt socks like they’rebadges of honor. “Socks are elite. Do you hate the coolness of socks?”

“Socks aren’t cool,” Tyler says from across the room, earning him a withering glare from Wesley.

“Maybe you didn’t get the memo, Little Falcon,” Wesley fires back as he tosses his suit jacket into his stall. I stifle a laugh at the nickname he just gave my brother.

Judging from the eye roll, Tyler’s not too fond of it, but Wesley doesn’t back down. Nope. He holds up his Corgi-butt socks once more like evidence in court. “I have monkey socks, giraffe socks, dumpster fire socks, librarians-like-it-hard socks, I-read-banned-books socks, Christmas socks, Halloween socks, and zombie socks. Socks are motherfucking elite.”

“Thank you, Wesley, for that rundown of your sock drawer. Exactly what we all needed today. Now, as I was saying, we need to get our asses in gear for the team pic,” I say, gesturing pointedly toward the exit.

Max stops loosening his tie. “Yes, but did you know I have I-hate-everyone-but-you socks?” he says, smirking as he holds up his foot to show off said socks. “Everly gave them to me.” It’s hard for him to hide the obvious adoration he has for his fiancée.

“Yeah?” Asher snorts. “Well, I’ve got giraffe briefs, monkey boxer briefs—but not Corgi butts. Hmm. I need those too. I might pitch that idea to CheekyBeast.” He whips out his phone, muttering a note to himself to send to, I think, his underwear sponsor, before turning back to Tyler. “So yeah, man, socks with animals are definitely cool.”

“You literally just bragged about your underwear, dude, not socks,” Tyler shoots back, scratching his head.

“And you should wear fun underwear too, man. Tip of the day from yours truly,” Asher says.

“I have black socks. And black briefs,” Rowan contributes dryly.

“Black—like your soul,” Asher says with an eye roll.

I plant myself in the center of the room, stick two fingers in my mouth and let out a sharp, piercing whistle that cuts through the chaos.

“Boys,” I say firmly, drawing all eyes to me. “Let’s settle this, yeah?”

Christian sheds his suit jacket in his stall near the back, raising a brow. But he stays quiet as the scene unfolds. It’s subtle, but his presence is felt—the watchful eyes of the current solo captain. This is a test, I realize. He’s waiting to see how I handle this circus—this show of leadership. Usually, he’s the one rounding up the unruly children, but if I’m going to be co-captain, this is absolutely part of the job. And since our first game of the season is tonight, I want to set the tone.

I turn to Hugo first. “You’re right—don’t wear socks with sandals and a suit. That’s just painful to my eyes and, frankly, all eyes.”

Then to Tyler: “Socks are cool. Deal with it.”

Tyler blanches, then swallows roughly, nodding. “Fine,” he grumbles.

---