Page 104 of The Girlfriend Zone

That’s what I tell myself. Except, the math isn’t mathing. I had two sexy days. But that doesn’t turn this thing into a relationship.

And besides, the calendar can help with my bigger goal: to make it on my own.

31

THE THING ABOUT ME

Miles

The thing about the Montreal team is they swear—and chirp—mostly in French.

The thing about me? I understand most of it.

Montreal’s Armand Delacroix is one of the most aggressive forwards in the league—with his game play and his mouth. When Bishop strips the puck from him and races down the ice with it, Delacroix mutters something wildly insulting under his breath, but I ignore it. For now.

By the third period, though, Delacroix’s chirps have gone from mildly annoying to flat-out nasty. The French equivalent of“Your mom sucks my dick”reaches my ears just as Bishop spins around, his voice sharp and cutting.

“Maybe learn to play better, fuckwad,” Bishop fires back, his tone dripping with venom though he doesn’t know exactly what Delacroix’s said.

Our opponent’s face darkens, and for a second, I thinkhe’s going to peel off his gloves and throw down. It’s hockey—fighting’s part of the game, and sometimes the guys just need to settle it.

But Bishop doesn’t give him the chance. Skates scraping against the ice, he snags the puck from Delacroix again—a clean, beautiful steal—and flips it to Bryant. Bryant tears down the ice and slams the puck into the net.

I pump a fist in celebration, and Bishop does the same, smacking gloves with Bryant.

As we hop over the boards for a line change, Delacroix skates by our bench and mutters, just loud enough for a few of us to catch,“I’m seeing her tonight.”

I snap my head toward him, my voice clipped. “Enough with the moms.”

Delacroix raises an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, like he didn’t expect me to understand him.

Coach peers down the bench at the commotion while Bishop glances my way, a confused frown creasing his forehead. “He’s saying mom shit?”

“Of course he is,” I say, waving it off as I clap Bishop on the padded shoulder. “Ignore it.”

But Bishop doesn’t look like he’s planning to ignore anything. His jaw is tight, and he’s gripping his stick like he’s imagining snapping it in half—or over Delacroix’s head.

“Fuck him,” Bishop growls, low and dangerous.

I lean in closer, keeping my voice calm. “Seriously. Ignore him. You start something, you’re getting a penalty. Coach hates that shit. Don’t give Delacroix the satisfaction.”

Bishop lets out a noise somewhere between a growl and a huff, like a bull at the gates, ready to charge.

But when he’s back on the ice for the next line shift, he stays cool. Delacroix keeps chirping, upping the ante with smirks and jabs, but Bishop doesn’t take the bait. He skates hard, clean, and focused, ignoring the hell out of the French barbs.

And when Bishop strips Delacroix of the puck one more time and helps set me up for a goal, I can’t help but grin.

The scoreboard’s doing all the talking now.

“What was Delacroix saying to Bishop?”

The question comes from a podcaster. His phone’s thrust forward and he’s recording every word.

I’m seated at the table in slides, shorts, and my jersey, hair still damp with sweat. “They were debating recipes,” I say, my voice dry.

The podcaster tilts his head. “Excuse me?”

“Poutine recipes,” I clarify with a shrug. “It’s an age-old debate.”

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