Page 62 of The Girlfriend Zone

I growl. “Who is he and when do I kill him?”

She laughs again. “There’s no need to commit light murder, Miles.”

“I didn’t say it’d be light,” I say, clenching my fists.

She shoots me an approving glance. “The good news is exes are exes for a reason, you know? Anyone who was awful is in the past.”

“Good,” I say, then circle back to her earlier comment. “All right, so we’re talking about ice, not romance.”

“Exactly. Because ice is what separates hockey from most other sports. Just lacing up is symbolic. My dad took me skating for the first time when I was little,” she says. “Helped me lace up for the first time. He told me how his heart was racing before his first NHL game, like it was going to explode. I thought he was so tough, you know?”

“And?”

A fondness passes over her expression. “And he is. But he choked up. He told me, ‘Real men tear up. Real menget emotional. Real men don’t hide behind macho personas.’”

That’s another reason I need to focus just on this budding friendship. Because I want Coach to be proud of me too. “That’s…that’s pretty incredible.”

“At the time, I didn’t totally understand, but I liked it when he tied my skates, patted my head, and said, ‘Let’s go for a spin.’”

“How’d you do?” I ask, picturing her on the ice—fierce, and determined.

“I stood up, wobbling like a foal, but after an hour, I was gliding around, my cheeks cold, my heart racing.”

We’re quiet for a beat, her words hanging between us, then she adds, “I understand why it means so much to the fans too. Seeing their favorite players lace up again gives them this sense of resilience. Every season, it’s hope. Hope forged from ice. And hope isn’t some soft thing—it’s a blade. It’s a stick. It’s hard won, and worked for. I want to do it justice.”

I swallow past a surge of emotion. “You’re a poet.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “No. I just think about ice a lot.”

“Me too.”

Before we go inside, I glance around. Hardly anyone’s here yet. I tell myself this is just a friendly gift, and maybe,maybe, I believe that as I reach into my pocket and pull out a small brown paper bag and offer it to her. “Actually, I got you something,” I say. Her brows lift in surprise, and she takes it, opening the bag carefully. It’s a gift I picked up at the jewelry shop near An Open Book. The same one where I bought her earrings a year ago—flower earrings she’s wearing today, like she was yesterday, like she did the day before.

Inside the bag is a delicate ankle bracelet with a tiny camera charm. Her expression softens as she stares at it. “It’s beautiful,” Leighton murmurs, her fingers brushing over the charm. “I…I didn’t expect this.”

“I didn’t either. It’s…a friendship bracelet,” I say, making that up on the fly, keeping my voice low, as anticipation bounces around in my chest.It’s just a friendly gift, it’s just a friendly gift.

“Oh, it is?” She gives me a look like she’ll play along.

“Of course.”

“I love it,” she says, a little spark in her eyes as she closes the bag. “Thank you. I’ll put it on later.”

“I could put it on you,” I offer, impulsively. The image of hooking this onto her slender ankle is lodged in my brain and won’t go away. The idea of finding an excuse to touch her is too hard to resist.

Her smile fades, and she’s serious now. “Miles, is that such a good idea?”

“No,” I say, and I’m not the impulsive guy. I’m the guy who thinks through things. Who weighs pros and cons. Who makes measured decisions for my life. Except, when I’m on the ice—then I think fast, react, and simplydo. I feel like I’m skating down the rink right now, hell-bent. “But so what?”

She laughs softly, a little unsure. “Maybe later?”

I’ll take thatmaybeand hold it tight in my hand. I’m glad, too, I’m not one of those exes who is awful. I’m glad, too, I have this new chance with her.

“I’ll be looking forward to that later.”

She seems to fight off a smile that tells me she is as well, and we go inside.

20

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