Page 49 of The Girlfriend Zone

I gulp as he says, “I’m not worried aboutyou, Leighton.” His tone transforms from lighthearted to serious. “Just watch out for the guys.”

Tension slams into my body. I shift in the chair. “The guys are fine,” I say as casually as I can while I pick at unseen lint on my shirt. “I’m used to them.”

“I know you are, but they’re elite, ultra-competitive athletes with a lot of…let’s call it…energy.”

Testosterone, he means. But I don’t want to say that either, because I understand him completely. “I get it.”

“And you’ll be working closely with them. They can be,” he says, sighing thoughtfully, “charming.”

It was inevitable, I suppose, with this job possibility. Thedon’t date a hockey playerwarning. He’s given it to Riley and me before, packaged as part of his occasional dad dating advice.Athletes tend to be obsessed with the sport. They’re married to the game. Most aren’t ready to settle down. I know these guys. I was one of these guys.

We don’t talk about the last part much, but there’s no real need to. His age tells the story. I was born when he was only twenty and in college. My mom was young too, and she stayed home with me while my father chased his ice dreams with her support. He’d already been drafted, but he stayed in school and finished classes. He played in the Frozen Four and went to the minors all as a young dad while Mom did most of the parenting, setting aside her handbag dreams. But I wonder if that led to her resenting Riley, him and me. To her cheating on him with an athlete-turned-agent. To her leaving us for that guy and the handbag dream she’d wanted to fulfill.

Since she’s not with Michael anymore, I don’t think Riley and I got in the way of romance for her. But maybe we did get in the way of her dreams?

I’m already twenty-four and out of school, so our situations are different. Still, I understand where my dad is coming from.

“I understand,” I say, finally responding even though the last thing he said isthey can be charming.

Yes, they absolutely can. One in particular.

“I’m glad. Like I said, most of them aren’t ready to settle down,” he says, giving me a resigned smile. “I don’t want to see you hurt. Ever.”

My throat tightens from the protectiveness in his voice, the care in his eyes. The heartfelt emotion behind his words.

“Same for you, Dad,” I say softly.

But his warning is heard and noted.

A week later, I’m tidying the studio at Hush Hush, returning silk robes to the wardrobe rack after a boudoir shoot, when Chanda calls and makes an official offer for me to take over for Mako for the next three months, covering training camp through Christmas.

“When he said you’d be the perfect choice, all I could think wasyes, she’s the one.”

I beam at the praise. “And I would love the project.”

We work out the timing and hours as I organize the black pumps on the shoe rack. “Everly is coordinating with the social media and marketing team,” Chanda says. “She’ll send you details soon about the photos they want.”

“That all sounds great,” I say. Those were details I wanted to see before I started on Wednesday.

After I hang up, I stare at the phone, still amazed this is happening—a plum temporary job taking pictures. This is my dream. On top of that, the pay is good—better than expected. I’ll have time to keep up with my freelance work, and my boudoir shoots if I’m clever with scheduling, but it shouldn’t be too hard. Most of my boudoir clients prefer evening or weekend sessions to fit around their work schedules. Plus, moving back in with my oldroommates means my rent will be even more manageable.

This is a smart move. A responsible move. And, most of all, it’s a chance for me to make my mark.

It’s also a responsible move to tell Miles.

A couple nights later, I finish the official Sea Dogs paperwork, pack up another box in my apartment, and text him.

Leighton: We might need to revise our deal about not being alone together.

Miles: Details???

I start to tap out a reply, but this really deserves an in-person conversation, despite our promise. Where though? If I have him pick me up, we’ll end up parking on the side of the road and making out until we miss all our appointments. Meeting at the arena would be a disaster—my dad, Chanda, or a teammate could walk by at any moment. And where would we even talk? The equipment room? That’s asking for trouble. I’m pretty sure equipment rooms are meant for stealing kisses with sexy hockey players you’re supposed to stay away from.

I pace my living room until the answer slams into me. I smile a little wickedly. Yes, that perfect place. We won’t be alone together there, not at all.

Leighton: Meet me at High Kick tomorrow morning at 10.

Miles: I’m there.

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