Page 85 of The Girlfriend Zone

“I do,” Leighton says, her voice warm. “The only thing that would make it better is if they served your green tea at the end of every shoot.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” Birdie says, waving a hand and glancing at her phone. “Would you look at the time? I need my beauty sleep. Coffee shops wait for no one.”

Before either of us can respond, she’s already scooting out of the booth, her sequins catching the light as she goes. She disappears in the blink of an eye, leaving a trail of meddling-grandma energy behind her.

I turn to Leighton, raising a brow. “She’s so subtle.”

“The subtlest,” she deadpans, her lips curving into a smile.

Now it’s just the two of us, tucked away in this booth a little removed from everyone else. Like Birdie planned the whole thing.

“So,” I say, leaning back against the seat, “it’s going well?”

“It is.” Leighton nods. “The GM has told me a few times how much she likes the pictures. So has Chanda. It’s all good.” She pauses, tilting her head. “You did well tonight. How was it playing with Tyler?”

“Honestly?” I let out a breath, feeling it hit me all over again, fresh and sharp. “It was kind of a dream come true. I don’t think I realized how much I wanted it until it happened. But it was great—to play together in a regular season game. We did so much as kids, and then we went our separate ways in college, and of course the pros. And really, there aren’t that many brother combos playing at the same time.”

“It’s rare,” she agrees softly. “That’s why I wanted that picture with you two high-fiving at the bench. Did you see it?”

“It’s on socials?”

“Chanda and Everly posted it right away. Let me show you,” she says, grabbing her phone.

Her polished silver nails fly across the screen, catching my attention as I linger on her hands and murmur softly, “Silver.”

She stops, her face tilting toward me. “What did you say?”

I do better at meeting her gaze. “Your nails are silver. They’re usually black.”

“They are. You noticed.”

I can barely think about the reasons this is a bad idea. “I notice everything.” I tip my forehead toward her earrings. “Your earrings.” My gaze drifts to her ink. “The flowers on your arms.”

She rubs her right hand along her left forearm, licking her lips as though waiting for me to say more.

“The way your hair falls,” I continue, the words spilling out before I can stop them.

And I can’t stop. “The way you smile. Your different smiles. You have so many.”

“And what are they?”

Images snap before my eyes. “There was one earlier tonight. When I scored—I think it was pride.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling again. “So cocky,” she whispers.

I tip my chin toward her. “There’s that one. The smile you give me when you say I’m cocky.”

“I do have a smile like that,” she says.

I cycle through her smiles in my head, then let out a satisfied sigh. “The one you have when you flirt.”

She gasps dramatically. “I flirt?”

I slide maybe an inch closer. There are teammateshere, co-workers. But the pull toward her is magnetic, and my resistance is tenuous at best. “You know you do, Shutterbug.”

“So do you,” she counters.

“I am guilty as charged,” I admit. But the words hit differently as I say them, guilt cutting into me. Not just guilt for wanting her—for being drawn to her—but for the fear that I couldn’t stop even if I tried. And what that might mean—for us, for the team, for everything I’ve worked for my whole life. I take a steadying breath, square my shoulders, and pivot the conversation. “Everly kind of gave me this look earlier when your name came up.”

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