18. The Miles Factor
18
THE MILES FACTOR
Leighton
Even though I’m not Riley’s third parent, I like to steal as much time with her as I can. Since her school starts late on Wednesdays, we grab a lychee bubble tea for her and tea for me before the first bell at school, and before I’m due at the Sea Dogs arena.
As we walk toward Harris Academy on the outskirts of Japantown, the streets dotted with cherry blossom motifs on banners, I ask about her classes. “How’s chemistry treating you?”
“Nope,” she denies me, grinning. “We’re chatting about you. It’s my turn. I have advice for you.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, you do, missy?”
“Definitely.” She gives a little skip. “I know most of the hockey guys.”
I blink, surprised. “You do?”
“Hello! While you were away at college, I had to hang out at the arena. Go to games and all. ”
Right. Fair point—she’s probably been to more games than I have.“Okay, Miss Mini Coach, tell me everything,” I say as we pass a small bakery, and I catch the faint aroma of matcha. Riley lifts her nose. She’s a matcha girl too. “The guys on the team are kind of like uncles to me.”
“Then wouldn’t that make me their niece too? Because I’m not loving that,” I say, shuddering at the thought. I definitely don’t want to be seen as a niece, especially with one player in particular.
“Fine, you’re like an aunt, then.”
“Riley, I know you’re good with genetics, but I don’t think I can be an aunt or a niece.”
My sister makes a swirling gesture with her hands, her fingers covered in rings. “My point is, remember: Hugo is the team teddy bear. His wife makes amazing cookies—we ordered them for the science competition last year.”
“Right,” I say. “Those cookies were delicious.”
“Then there’s Christian. Everyone looks up to him. Very serious.”
“Got it.” I nod, knowing this to be true about the current team captain.
“And Max, of course. The city loves him because everyone loves a goalie—even a grumpy one.”
“Is he still grumpy? Didn’t falling madly in love with Everly mellow him out? I watched him in that Ice Men documentary, and he definitely gives less battery acid vibes than before.”
“True. But he’s still the king of glowers,” she says with a laugh.
“Fair enough,” I say, then tap my temple like I’m noting these details.
“But Rowan Bishop definitely attended the Max Lambert School of Grouchy-ness so he’s been picking up the slack in that department,” she says, mentioning one of the veteran defensemen on the team.
“Noted. This is seriously helpful.”
“Apparently the only time he even smiles is when his little girl comes to games.”
That makes me smile. “That’s adorable.”
Riley taps her chin, as if she’s deep in thought, her ponytail swishing as we walk. “Then there’s Tyler. I don’t know much about Tyler, but I did some research, and apparently some Supernova fans call him ‘Daddy.’ Like, actually call him that. They sometimes play that ‘Daddy’s Home’ song on socials when he jumps onto the ice.” She hums the tune.
I cringe. “Okay, I actually never want to hear you sing that again.”
“I’m just giving you all the intel,” she says, counting off on her fingers, delighting far too much in her knowledge of the team as we pass a small group of tourists snapping photos in front of the Peace Pagoda. A few families are gathered there, some kids playing tag as Riley continues with her team trivia.
She tells me about Ford, a veteran on the second line who I don’t know terribly well, but who’s had a rock-solid career. “He’s recently divorced, so he gets marriage proposals from fans every few games,” she says.
I laugh. “That’s one way to find a husband.”
Then she gives me all the details on Wesley and Asher, even though I know them well enough since they’re involved with my friends.
I brace myself, knowing exactly who she’s going to bring up next. “And then there’s Miles,” she says casually. “Basically the hot nerd of the team. ”
“‘Hot nerd,’ you say?” I tease, tugging on her ponytail. “You’re judging him for the glasses?”
“I don’t make the rules, okay? I’m just saying. He was photographed once in, like, slacks and a gray cardigan with those glasses, and he gave off total professor vibes. My friends all talked about it.”
I shoot her a disapproving look. “You’re sixteen. You can’t think someone on Dad’s hockey team is hot.”
Honestly, I can’t either.
“Don’t worry,” she says dryly. “Hockey players are not my type.”
Ah, this is a better topic—her. “So, what’s your type?”
“I’m totally into nerd kings. Give me a nerd, and I’m happy,” she says proudly. “But seriously, stop distracting me. What about you?”
“You’re asking what I’m into?”
“Yes. You haven’t dated really since you’ve been back in town. Is it because dating is miserable, and the apps are full of liars?”
I pull her into a quick hug. “I’ve raised you well. But there are good ones out there. Just…not the guys I dated in college.” Like Nick, the guy who, on our third date, told me my hearing aids were an embarrassment. He’s definitely one of the reasons I’m not interested in dating anyone here. But so is Jameson, the guy I went out with after him. Jameson was an engineering major, had a dry sense of humor, and loved to play board games. But one night, when we were watching a TV show, I asked him to turn on the captions. He looked at me like I was asking him to fly to the moon. A few days later, he broke up with me, saying romance was too complicated. Was it the captions or was it just a line because he wanted out? I don’t know. Either way, I didn’t want to jump back into dating after him.
But I don’t tell Riley any of that—she doesn’t need another reason to feel disillusioned.
She’s relentless though, she snaps her gaze to me, a twinkle in those blue eyes. “But have you noticed that, among your friends, you’re the only one not dating a hockey player?”
Of course I’ve noticed. Of course I’m acutely aware of it. “Well, Fable’s with Wilder. So not all of them,” I say, pointing out the fallacy in her argument.
“Still. Odds are you’re next in line,” she says with a mischievous grin.
I shake my head. “Not a chance. Have you met our father? Have you heard his warnings?”
“He did tell me never to date a hockey player.”
“What a surprise. He said the same to me the other day. Hockey players can be charming ,” I say, imitating him and his euphemisms.
“That’s so him.”
“And it’s sound advice,” I say, hoping that’ll end the topic.
But Riley doesn’t give up so easily. “Like I said, Miles is the hot one, so…I could kind of see you with him.”
Her comment catches me off guard. Even my sister thinks we’d be a good match. And maybe, if things were different—if I had a different last name—I’d be able to think so too. Which means I’m going to have to double down on the friendship plans with Miles in, oh, say, thirty minutes when I arrive at work.
“You’ve always had a good imagination,” I say, giving her a quick squeeze as we reach her school. “Now go, before you’re late. ”
Once she’s past the doors, I check my phone. There’s a text from my father with a photo he’s snapped on his digital photo frame, likely this morning. It’s a picture of me heading into work at the boba shop I worked at during high school. Look what my frame showed me this morning! A first day of work pic! Good luck today!
I smile from the note. I think it’s the only time Coach McBride uses exclamation points—with his daughters.
With my camera bag slung over my shoulder and my brand-new temporary employee badge in my hand, I stop at the doors into the corridor of the arena that leads to the locker room, the weight room, the rink. I’ve been here a hundred times, but this is the first time my stomach has flipped like a pancake so many times. I’m not usually a nervous person, but I’m made of nothing but jitters right now.
It’s not simply the Miles factor. It’s that I want to prove I belong here—that I’m not a daddy’s girl or a nepo baby. It’s not like anyone’s said it outright, but I know what people might think. And that sliver of doubt, that little what if , keeps gnawing at me. And there’s this bit of a worry too—what if I don’t hear something someone says?
I swallow before I open the door, slide a hand into my jeans pocket, and check my phone. My hearing aids are fully charged, and the program is set for speech. It’ll be fine. I don’t usually have a problem. And besides, pro athletes aren’t usually soft-spoken.
And really, it’s not like asking what did you say is the worst thing .
I tuck my hair over my ear, then stop, breathe, and untuck it. Better to let it fall long and loose.
I’m ready, and the second I push open the door, I spot Everly on the other side. She’s laughing with Jenna Nguyen, the promotions manager, who wears glasses and has her sleek black hair cinched back in a clip, and Chanda Kumar, the director of marketing. Chanda’s wearing a bright red blazer over her blouse, and has a tablet in hand, her usual energy practically buzzing in the air around her as she scrolls through notes, presumably. I head over to them. I know them all already, but I still feel all the first-day-of-school vibes.
When I arrive, Everly turns her gaze to me. She’s friendly but professional as she says, “Hey, Leighton. Welcome to the team. We have a busy day for you.”
“I’m ready,” I say, and I slough off all my nerves since I am ready. Ready to focus on work and to safeguard my future. Starting with photos for a series of social media posts around the “we’re back” theme.
I’ve got the talent, the vision. I’ve been doing this long before I ever thought about working here. This is just another gig. Another opportunity.
Twenty minutes later, I'm walking into the weight room to take pictures of the guys working out. The smell of rubber mats and a hint of fresh laundry fills the air. Machines line the walls, clanging as weights are adjusted, while a couple of players—Hugo, one of the defensemen, and Alexei, usually a center on the second line—laugh in the corner, catching their breath between sets. Rowan, as promised by Riley, is stoic as he finishes up some preacher curls next to them.
And then I see Miles pushing off a weight bench, standing, taking off his shirt.
My pulse jackhammers.
Must. Not. Stare.
This is a test. The universe is simply testing me. And really, I’ve been around hockey players my whole life.
I ignore the curl of lust twisting through my veins. Stepping farther into the room, I take a quick, steadying breath, and say, “Hi, guys. I’m Leighton.”
Kill me now.
My voice comes out all annoyingly breathy. My cheeks flush as I square my shoulders, soldiering on and willing the splash of heat to get the fuck off my face.
“I’m a photographer,” I add, waggling my Nikon bag like it’s show-and-tell in kindergarten, but I still sound high-pitched, like talking to a group of high-octane, testosterone-fueled elite athletes is all new to me. “I’ll be here taking all sorts of promo photos throughout training camp, pre-season, and the start of the season. And then for a few months.”
And…I sound like a kid listing the timeline of my job, like anyone cares.
I feel even more like one when Chanda steps in beside me, saving everyone from my over-eager prattling. “Leighton’s filling in for Mako. So, just do your thing, guys. I’ll send out a daily schedule of photo opps, but expect that she’ll be taking pics of drills, practices, ice time, and lots of fun behind-the-scenes stuff,” she says, and I focus on the whole weight room, and all the guys in here, rather than the one with his shirt off, his hand resting on the silver bar— the one who’s looking at me. “Anything you don’t want posted, just let us know,” Chanda adds. “But we’ll start with the workout since, well, fans love a workout shot. Good?”
Why didn’t I just say that? She sent me those details too.
“You’re not wrong. My girlfriend loves shirtless shots of me. I like to make sure she has plenty every day ,” Alexei says, and the Saint Petersburg-born player is definitely not lacking in the confidence department.
Chanda laughs, amused by him. “Great. Leighton will make sure Freya has even more for her collection, and the rest of our fans too.”
Alexei turns to me, pressing his hands together in a mock prayer and giving me an imploring grin. “Also, I went on a special training regimen this summer. Can you let Coach know? Really, I’m in peak form.”
Hugo rolls his eyes at him. “Dude, Mini Mac is not here to curry favor with the coach on your behalf.” Then, the big-hearted, burly defenseman shoots me a grin. Hugo plays for Sweden in international competitions, and has lived in the U.S. since grade school. “But if you were passing on nice words to your pops, just know I lifted every damn day and did sprints. I could throw in a box of my wife’s cookies to sweeten the deal. Big Mac loves those.”
Rowan rolls his eyes their way as he moves onto biceps curls. “Or you could try playing better, assholes.”
“Language, Bishop,” Christian calls out from his spot by the leg-press machine, shaking his blond head like he’s had enough of these guys, and like he thinks I haven’t heard worse. But he’s the captain, so it’s his job, I suppose, to keep these guys in line. He’s also Josie’s big brother. “ Ignore these idiots, Leighton. Just like I do. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will,” I say as he strides over and sticks out a hand. I shake it. “And it’s good to meet you, Christian.”
“You too, Leighton,” he replies.
“Welcome aboard, Mini Mac One,” Alexei adds, all serious now.
“Nice to meet you, Mini Mac One,” Hugo calls out, waving.
“Hey,” Rowan grunts.
Now I see why Miles didn’t know my name. My sister must be Mini Mac Two. And it’s clear “Leighton” probably isn’t going to stick with any of these guys. I’m not even sure if Miles is going to acknowledge me. What do our brand-new friendship rules call for? No clue.
But then the man I deliberately looked away from clears his throat and takes a step closer to me. “Welcome to the jungle, Leighton,” he says, meeting my gaze with a steady, no-nonsense look of his own. He turns to the guys. “Let’s let her do her thing.”
And yes, it is a jungle in here. All the man-imals know I’m essentially the boss’s daughter, even if Miles is calling me by my name.
Looks like I’ll have to earn their respect the old-fashioned way—with talent, grit, and by pretending a certain player’s shirtless workouts don’t make me blush.
Oh, and one more thing—throwing a little gasoline on their competitive fire.
“Let’s get some pictures. We can let the fans decide who worked out hardest in the off-season,” I say, and there’s a flurry of activity as the guys instantly snap into focus to prove who’s the strongest, toughest, best among them.
Not only do I survive the first shoot, but I capture one hell of a story—competition. The guys push harder, lift more, and do extra reps. Intensity etches across their faces, muscles strained, beads of sweat trailing down their skin.
Fine, it’s sexy in an eye-candy kind of way. But through my camera lens, it’s more than that. It’s a scene of a team reuniting, training together from day one with a single purpose—to be the last team standing by season’s end.
When the workout winds down, the guys file out one by one, with Miles the last to leave. He’s wearing a shirt now, but it clings to his sweaty chest. He glances over at me. “What’s the story here?”
“Determination,” I say simply.
He nods, approval in his eyes. “Determination,” he repeats, his lips twitching with the hint of a smile. “Fitting.”
It feels that way as he turns and walks down the corridor to the locker room without looking back.
That feels like an act of determination too.
For him.
And for me, as I draw a steadying breath and head in the other direction.