Page 80 of The Girlfriend Zone

Wesley sits up straighter, grinning Tyler’s way. “See? I told you, Little Falcon. And Big Falcon agrees. Socks are the G.O.A.T.”

“And Asher,” I add, pointing a finger. “Corgi butt idea? Golden. Get that happening ASAP.”

Asher salutes me with his phone. “On it.”

I turn to Rowan. “Your black soul is exactly what we need on the ice.”

The defenseman gives a workman-like nod. “And it’s what you’ll get every single game.”

Finally, I return my focus to my brother since it’s time for some tough love. “Listen, man. The issue isn’t your socks. It’s your sandals,” I say, gesturing to the offending footwear he kicked off that I kind of can’t believe he wore with a suit on the first day. “They’re giving major number-one dad vibes. And I think that’s the real problem.”

The room erupts in laughter as Wesley slides across the bench to sit next to Tyler. “He’s right. Your sandals are the weak link, bro. Don’t worry; I can help. I don’t want you left behind in the sock-or-sandal revolution.”

“But no socks with sandals and suits,” Hugo cuts in. “Big Falcon said so.” He points to the DickNose board, then turns to me, his eyes like a puppy dog’s. “Can we make that a rule?”

Seizing the opportunity to wrap this debate up and move on, I grab the marker from the board. “Dress code rules. No socks with sandals while wearing a suit,” I write at the top, underlining it. “And…dress like a cool dad.”

“Ouch,” Tyler groans, clutching his chest as if he’s been stabbed. “Way to twist the knife.”

“We’re just looking out for you,” Hugo says, smirking. “One dad to another. Also, for the record, my wife dresses me, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

“Cookie Melissa?” Wesley asks, his curiosity piqued. Pretty sure he has developed a cookie addiction courtesy of Hugo’s baker wife.

“Damn right. She’s got great taste in cookiesandclothes,” Hugo replies, and an idea forms in my head.

I snap my fingers. “We should send Leighton over to shoot a video of that,” I suggest. “Cookie Melissa picking out the defenseman’s clothes. That’s gold for social.”

“Fashion tips from the players’ wives,” Wesley muses. “Hell yeah.”

“Right. I’ll pass it on to Everly first and see if she approves,” I say, pointing my thumb toward the locker room exit, and moving on from this talk of Leighton, since I can’t let on that I’ve thought about her nearly nonstop since the night at her place more than a week ago. “But right now, we need to get to the ice for a promo pic. Get your jerseys on and let’s go.”

They groan, but one by one, they pull on their jerseys and uniform shorts, lace up their skates and shuffle out of the room. I stay behind, making sure every last one of them gets their ass in gear, including Christian, who claps me on the shoulder as he passes.

“It’s no joke being co-captain potentially, huh?” he says, his voice low enough for only me to hear. “I won’t miss this stuff. I’ll delegate rounding up the boys to you.”

I glance at him, smirking. “So you’re putting me in charge of the sheep herding if I get the gig, Winters?”

“Fuck yes, Falcon. I’m keeping the good stuff for myself,” he says, then strides out, leaving me alone with the faint echoes of chaos still ringing in my ears.

I guess I’m the Border Collie. And…I don’t really mind.

But honestly, the real Border Collie is Scuppers. He’s the team’s mascot—part Border Collie, part Husky, and all rescue. When I step onto the ice a minute later, the black-and-white dog is already rolling on his back, legs flailing, begging for belly rubs.

“Aww, Scups,” Asher says, crouching to pat the four-legged critter. Scuppers paws at him, demanding moreattention, while Leighton snaps picture after picture a few feet away. I keep my cool, careful not to look at her gorgeous face. We’ve been doing a solid job sticking to our friendship rules. Besides, a little dirty sexting doesn’t count. It was only once, anyway.

Shame, that.

“Did you put dog food on your face?” Wesley asks Asher.

“Nope. I’m naturally dognip,” Asher says, grinning as Scuppers flips over and pops up to lick his face.

“And I figured my natural animal magnetism would be enough,” Rowan says, with a deep sigh.

I clap him on the back. “Tough break, Bishop. Stings not being the chosen one, huh? Maybe do some journaling later. Get to the bottom of it.”

He scowls, then calls to get Scuppers’s attention again. But the dog whips around, surveys the scene, and bounds over to me instead, skidding along the ice, all paws and excitement, then plopping into a perfect sit at my feet, tail wagging furiously even in the cold.

“See? He knows what side his bread’s buttered on,” I say, scratching under Scuppers’s chin as Leighton’s camera clicks away.

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