Page 25 of The Girlfriend Zone

9

HOW TO CUT A DATE SHORT

Leighton

“But…but Birdie said you’re a chef!” I point out, my voice shooting toward the sky, as if somehow repeating Birdie’s words could erase the absolute horror of what Miles has just admitted.

And horror is on his face too. “I wish I were a chef! No, I’m not. What the fuck would make her say that?”

I point wildly in the direction of Fillmore Street, as if pointing to his grandmother. “She told me you were. She said not to bring up your job—that’s why I didn’t say anything. I was trying to be respectful.”

His eyes flash with frustration, but I catch a flicker of realization in them, too, as he stares at the ceiling for a beat, like he can’t believe this is actually happening. He looks back at me, finally. “And she told me not to discuss my job with you. She said nobody wants to hear about that on a first date. She said to talk about other things. Holy fuck—I should have told you what I did sooner.”

He drags a hand across his brow, looking like he’s received the worst news of his life. And honestly, it kind of is.

“You’re…Miles Falcon,” I say, since I need to voice it out loud, and as I do, the truth hits me with full force. I didn’t put Miles the chef together with Miles Falcon the Sea Dog, because why would I? I legit thought he was a chef; I don’t study the pictures of the players on my dad’s team. I haven’t been to a game in a while, since I studied abroad the year I think he joined, and, well, I’ve been pretty busy in the last year too. “You don’t look like a hockey player. You look like…” I flap my hands at him, still adding up how the hell this misunderstanding has happened. “Well, you look like a chef. With the boots and the black and the glasses.”

He sighs heavily. “Yeah, well, I only cook for fun. I play hockey for work. And I thought you knew.”

“How would I know?” I’m nearly shouting. “I don’t memorize pictures of the players.”

Also, hello! He plays hockey. He’s not a movie star.But that’s rude to point out.

Miles holds up his hands in surrender, clearly frustrated with himself now. “I don’t know what I thought. I guess I thought maybe you knew I played hockey and didn’t care. Or that you just…didn’t care what I do.”

“I didn’t care about what you do…until I found out you worked for my father,” I say, sputtering.

“Shit, shit. This is terrible.” He shakes his head, not even bothering with the spilled artichokes and glass on the floor. “I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe I slept with the coach’s daughter.”

He sounds sick to his stomach. I feel sick to mine too. “I can’t believe I slept with one of his players,” I mutter,pacing around his living room, trying to untangle this mess and make sense of it.

My dad’s been the coach of this team for the last five years. Players respect him. The league respects him. He’s had a phenomenal career. And I can’t get involved with a member of his team.

“I didn’t know it was you,” I add quickly when I stop pacing and head into the kitchen because it feels important to make that clear. I don’t want him to think I’ve tricked him. “I really believed Birdie, and I’m guessing she told me you were a chef to protect you. She probably thought if she told me you played hockey that I might only be interested in you for that reason, since she obviously knew we were into each other.”

He laughs humorlessly. “Trust me, she knew I had it bad for you the first day we met.”

My stupid heart flips, but I don’t let myself linger on the feeling—it’s fleeting.

Besides, I want to impress this point on him. “I’ve been out of town. I went to college in Los Angeles. I even spent a year studying abroad in London. And since then I have been busy working on my career. I know hockey, but I don’t know every single player. I’m not one of those superfans who can rattle off each team member and recognize every photo of them.”

Miles just stares at me, stunned. “Did Birdie know who you are though?”

“I don’t think my last name came up. I’m not close with her. We just talked about photos, and that was all.”

He shakes his head, dismissing the thought of Birdie knowing his coach is my father, because why would she do that to her beloved grandson? “She wouldn’t have done this on purpose…She knows how much I admire your father.” Miles lets out a pained sigh and drops his head into his hands. “Holy shit, your father saved my career. He fought for me to be on this team when I was struggling in Vancouver. He helped me get over a problem on the ice. He hooked me up with a sports psychologist. Your father is the reason I still have a career.”

“My father is the reason I have one good parent who cares about me…” I trail off, the weight of this whole mess pressing down on me.

We stand there in his kitchen, surrounded by a broken jar of artichokes, an open bottle of wine, and the ingredients he’d planned to make into our late-night dinner. A dinner that isn’t happening now. A second date being cut short. A third that won’t ever come to pass. Because it’s not a matter of who says it first; when we look at each other, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt we’re both thinking the same thing.

“This can’t happen again,” I whisper.

Miles nods, understanding immediately. “I know. Let me take you home.”

I shake my head. “I’ll catch a Lyft.”

“Let me drive you.”

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