Page 130 of The Girlfriend Zone

“How did it go with your dad?” he asks, leaning casually against the railing.

I make a see-saw motion with my hand. “Okay-ish?”

“Sorry,” he says sympathetically.

“Not your fault.”

“But it kind of is.”

Is it though? Or is it mine? I can’t spiral into those questions now, and I shake my head firmly. “It’ll be fine,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. I don’t want to bother him with these feelings when he has a lot to lose too. “Don’t worry about me.”

“But I do,” he says.

“Let’s do the shoot.” If we stay here, I’ll give into the urge to melt into him.

“You sure?”

“I am.” As much as I want to talk to him, I want to look out for him too. It’s the least I can do for him.

“You go first,” he says with a hint of caution.

I push the door open and step out into the hallway, where my heart seizes. Rounding the corner ahead of me is the power trio: Clementine, Eleanor, and Zaire. AKA the GM, the owner, and the VP of marketing.

Panic flashes like lightning, but I lecture my primitive brain sternly.You’re fine. You’re not doing anything wrong. Put one foot in front of the other.

They’re not even walking toward me, but headed in the opposite direction.

I straighten my posture, keeping my steps even and casual, while my pulse sprints ahead. What would they think if they knew the truth? Would they care? Would Chanda be less inclined to refer me to others?

This romance with Miles isn’t against the rules of the team or the organization, but it feels like it is. Deep down, I know all this sneaking around is bound to catch up with us.

39

THE ZAMBONI OUTLAW

Miles

If I wasn’t a hockey player, I’d be a Zamboni driver. Actually, scratch that. I want to be a Zamboni driver whose dog comes to work with him every day, sitting right next to me like this cool dude Frank here. He’s a Pit Bull-Boxer-Cattle-Dog mix with a brindle coat that looks like it was ordered from the Cool Dog catalogue, and the senior mutt is sporting an excellent frosty face. Fitting for an old guy, since his chill factor is off the charts. He’s just sitting here, hanging with me as I take the Zamboni for a spin around the rink before our game tonight, while the world’s sexiest, most captivating woman takes pictures for the calendar.

My life right now is basically perfect.

“Why did I wait so long to drive a Zamboni again?” I call out to Tyler, who’s lingering near the edge of the ice, holding onto a leash attached to a three-legged GermanShepherd. The dog has a wild energy, faster than most four-legged ones I’ve seen.

“Because you’re an idiot,” Tyler shouts back.

“Why have enemies when you can have brothers?” I yell as I steer around the oval, maybe showing off my mad Zamboni-driving skills for the photographer.

“Now hurry up and get off that thing before you get arrested again, like the time you tried to steal a Zamboni,” Tyler says, making a “get on with it” gesture.

“I wasn’t arrested,” I say, scoffing as I make another loop.

Leighton lowers her camera a bit to smirk at me. “Of course you weren’t, Miles. I’m sure you talked your way out of it.” Her playful tone says she knows me so well, and the sound makes my chest tighten. She also seems more relaxed than when I ran into her an hour ago. I hate the thought of her unhappy or stressed.

“Maybe not arrested, but you were banned from the rink for a week.” Tyler will just not let it go. “Basically the same thing for a hockey player.”

“What’d you do, Prof?” Rowan calls from the tunnel. “Try to actually steal a Zamboni?” He’s cradling a fluffball of a dog—some kind of Pomeranian-Chihuahua mix. “You need to get better at being an outlaw, Falcon. I’ve driven a Zamboni countless times and never got in trouble.”

“He can’t misbehave,” Tyler shoots back. “He’s gonna be co-captain.”

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