Page 81 of The Girlfriend Zone

She’s good at this—moving seamlessly among the guys, blending in to capture candid moments. Still, the closer she gets to me, the more my bones hum, the more my insides churn, the harder my pulse thuds. Her dad stands just a few feet away, arms crossed as he watches her work. It’s a reminder to keep my cool.

Everly clears her throat from the players’ bench, breaking the moment. “All right, guys, let’s get some team pics before the first game of the new season!”

She outlines the poses, but half the guys are alreadydistracted. When she’s done, I turn around, and face the clowns. “Listen up, boys. You do a good job and focus right now, and drinks are on me tonight when we win.”

That gets their attention. Everyone snaps to, striking their best game faces for the team photo.

“Excellent,” Leighton says, her voice calm and encouraging as she snaps away. “That’s right. Just like that.”

She lowers the camera, turning to the bench. “How about one with you, Coach McBride?”

The guys react instantly. Hugo snickers. Alexei cracks up. Rowan snorts.

I shoot them both a glare. “Focus, boys.”

Coach gives a crisp nod, skates onto the ice, and lines up with us. Like magic, every single guy straightens up, standing at attention.

Leighton doesn’t miss a beat, snapping a couple of quick shots. “Good job,” she says, lowering the camera with a satisfied smile.

Because we all want to impress Coach. He’s that kind of guy.

A few minutes later, as I’m leaving the ice, Coach catches up to me. He nods, his expression unreadable. “Good job rounding them up for the shot,” he says. “That’s what I wanted to see.”

The subtext isn’t exactly subtle. This is what he wants in a co-captain.

“Glad to hear that, sir,” I say evenly.

“And remember, I’ll need you to take point on the press too,” he adds. “That’s part of the responsibility—being willing to talk to the media, even when we lose. Even if you’ve had a bad game. It’s about being the face of the team.”

“Understood,” I say, stoic and sturdy. Exactly what he needs me to be.

“And accessible as well,” he says, his lips quirking in the faintest smile.

My gut twists. Would he still smile at me like that if he knew the things I’ve said to his daughter? The things I want when I look at her? The things I’ve done with…photos?

Hot shame slices through me, and I force all those traitorous thoughts aside.

When it’s game time, Leighton’s standing in the tunnel again, camera at the ready, snapping pics as we head to the ice, stopping at Scuppers along the way. The mascot hangs out at the end of the tunnel next to his handler, offering a paw for high-fives. Every player stops to high-five—high-paw—the dog for good luck. When I stop to offer a hand, I fight like hell not to turn my head back and look at Leighton one more time. I’m ready to high-five myself for my resistance when I reach the gate, but then something—a force more powerful than me—draws my attention back to the beautiful brunette with the Nikon around her neck.

Some days I wish I didn’t want her so much.

But it’s so much more than want—this feeling that won’t go away. I linger on her for another second, then I hit the ice.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I urge as a Phoenix defender swarms Callahan before he can take a shot, but he flips the puck to Bryant, who ferries it around the back of the net, hunting for an opening.

Like, say, me.

I sneak past the defender chasing Callahan, getting open for Bryant. He flicks the puck my way, and I lunge for it, then line up my shot, but it bounces off the post.

“Fuck,” I grumble as Phoenix recovers it and streaks down the ice. My skates dig hard into the surface as I race to cut off their momentum, the burn in my legs a distant hum beneath the adrenaline. The crowd roars, but I tune it out. There’s no time to think about anything but this play.

Lambert looms in front of the net, his stick flashing out to bat the puck away before the Phoenix forward can even think about shooting. It rockets toward the boards, ricocheting off with a sharp crack that echoes through the arena.

Right to Tyler.

Sweet.

My brother’s stick inhales the puck, and he’s off like a shot, tearing down the ice with me flanking him. I’m open, so I call for it, a quick snap of my voice over the chaos. He doesn’t hesitate. My stick catches it cleanly. My eyes snap to the goalie.

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