Behind the Net: Chapter 30

I CAN’T STOP THINKING about her.

“We’ll have another round,” Owens tells the server, gesturing at our large group. All the players are out tonight in a bar after a loss against Houston.

Unease simmers in my gut as I drink my beer. Whenever the whistle blew during the game tonight, I had the urge to look over my shoulder. I couldn’t stop picturing her sitting there, smiling and watching me play. I’ve been away for six days, and it’s time to face an ugly truth.

I miss the songbird.

The server places another beer in front of me and I slug back the rest of my drink before handing her the empty glass and thanking her.

“You’re in a mood tonight,” Owens notes, cocking a grin.

I stare at him.

“How’s your girl doing?”

My girl. The words warm my chest. “She’s my assistant,” I say, but it doesn’t sound convincing.

“Yeah.” He smirks. “That’s what I meant.”

I drink half my beer. “She’s none of your fucking business.”

He lets out a loud laugh, head tipping back. “Streicher, relax. I’m not going after Pippa.”

My shoulder muscles ease and I take another pull of my beer.

I think back to the conversation Pippa and I had in the car, where I told her not to bring guys home. So fucking stupid. Could I have been more obvious? She probably thinks I’m a toxic asshole.

And then there was the wrap party. Kissing her, touching her, pulling her into my lap. I’ve been replaying that night all week.

“You’re probably going to bite my head off for saying this,” Owens starts.

“So don’t say it.”

He grins. “Nah. I’m going to say it anyway. You play better when Pippa’s at the game.”

I fold my arms over my chest. I can feel my nostrils flaring. There’s a weird pressure in my chest.

“That’s because when she goes to my games, my mom is there,” I tell him in a sharp tone. “I worry about my mom.”

He shakes his head, eyes glittering. “I don’t think that’s it.”

“You’re drunk.”

He laughs again. “Yeah, I am, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

I roll my eyes. These fucking rookies think they know everything. Down the table, Alexei Volkov calls him over, and when Owens gets up and leaves, I picture Pippa sitting behind the net. My nerves immediately settle.

Fuck.

I rub the bridge of my nose. I’m not ready to look this problem in the eye. It’s cowardly of me, and it goes against everything I’ve learned about grit and mental toughness from my sport, but…

I can’t do this for real with Pippa. I can’t mess it up and then be in the same category as Zach, the fuckface loser. After hearing her play guitar and sing for me, I know she has what it takes to have a career in music.

She just doesn’t realize it yet.

In my back pocket, my phone buzzes. It’s a picture of Pippa and Daisy on a hike this afternoon. The sun peeks through the trees, and Pippa’s eyes are so bright. Two pink patches bloom on her cheeks from the cold. My heart squeezes. I study them, tracing the lines of her face and her caramel hair with my gaze. She’s wearing a light jacket, and I frown.

Dress warmer, I text. It gets cold in the mountains.

My full focus is on my phone, watching as the typing dots appear. A twist of excitement hits my chest, like the moments before a player tries to score on my net.

Bossy, she texts back.

I huff, leaning my chin on my palm, scrolling back up to the photo of her. The beer is making my head float, and I wonder if she’d say that in bed.

My mind floods with images of us together—naked, breathing hard. Maybe I have her wrists pinned down as I push into her, watching her eyes go hazy.

My cock stiffens and I clench my eyes closed, rubbing my face. Christ, Streicher. Get your shit together.

Pippa’s problem with orgasms has nagged at me all week.

I stare at my text conversation with her, wanting to say so many things. How are you and have you been thinking about me too and I know a hundred ways to make you come.

How are things at the apartment this week? I finally settle on because it’s less personal.

Quiet, she responds. Daisy misses you.

My pulse picks up. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at my screen.

I’ll be home before she knows it, I text back.

Pippa’s response comes right away. She’s looking forward to it.

My mouth curves up.

“Holy shit,” Owens says down the table, pointing at me. “He smiles.”

I shake my head at him, and I think I’m still smiling. “Fuck off, Owens,” I call down to him, but there’s no bite to my words. He just grins back at me.

Tell me about the hikes you’ve done this week, I text Pippa.

You want a detailed schedule?

Yes. Down to the hour.

Demanding.

I smirk at my phone, knee bouncing as my blood crackles with energy.

Half an hour later, we’re still texting, messages flying back and forth. I’ve lost count of how many beers I’ve had. I don’t drink much—my mom was always worried I’d inherit my dad’s alcoholism—but I tell myself that drinking with the team is part of the team bonding thing Ward likes. I’m in that buoyant buzzed zone where everything seems more fun.

Thank you again for coming with me to the wrap party, she says.

I left for my away games the morning after the party, so we haven’t had a chance to talk about it.

No problem.

I want to apologize for what we talked about.

My gut tenses. Explain.

The response doesn’t come right away, and I can sense her chewing her lip on the other side of the continent. The stuff that I talked about with Zach and me… it was unprofessional.

I rub the ache behind my sternum, picturing her brow wrinkling with worry. Does she regret telling me? I forced you to tell me.

Still. It’s not your problem and I’m embarrassed.

I don’t know what this feeling is in my chest. It’s a blend of wanting to give her a hug that lasts for hours and the fierce need to prove her wrong about this “problem” she thinks she has.

Nothing to be embarrassed about, songbird. I hit send before I can think twice about calling her that. I really shouldn’t, if we’re talking about being professional. I can’t seem to stop, though.

Okay, well… she replies. Thanks for listening.

You can talk to me about that stuff anytime, I tell her, like I’m her fucking boyfriend or something. My chest clenches at that thought.

An ugly image wanders into my head. I picture Pippa and me sitting on the couch in the apartment, her talking about her sex problems with a guy she’s seeing. Rage whips through me. I fucking hate that image.

I’m going to go to sleep now, she texts. Good night, Jamie.

Good night, Pippa.

Long after her last message, I stare at my phone, scrolling through our conversation.

Zach couldn’t make her come, and I want to so badly. Not just because of my competitive nature, but because Pippa’s lovely, and she deserves everything good. I could see the anguish all over her face when she told me about it. It upsets her.

I need to fix this for her. I need to take care of her.

I bury my head in my hands. There are a million good reasons to forget she ever told me those things. She works for me, and I trust her in my home, with my dog, and with my mom. I like her, and I don’t want to screw things up for her the way I did with Erin. And I know from last year, my mom needs me to keep an eye on her, even if she isn’t ready to admit it.

“Streicher, when I said you should spend more time with the team,” Ward says with a crooked smile, gesturing to me on my phone, “this isn’t what I had in mind.”

I glance around the table. Everyone is in conversation, talking and drinking and laughing, but my head is back in Vancouver with the woman I’m supposed to keep my distance from.

I slip my phone back into my pocket, and Owens orders me another beer.

It’s late when I get back to my room. I’m clumsy, fumbling with my key to open the door. After I put my phone away, Owens had us all laughing at stories from his summer trip to Europe. He reminds me of how Miller used to be before he turned into a jackass. Ward even told us a bit about his pre-injury days when he played for Toronto.

The entire time, though, my mind lingered on Pippa’s problem.

I yank my shirt and pants off and flop down onto my bed, pulling out my phone and skimming through my conversation with Pippa again.

It’s only a matter of time before she admits it to another guy and he wants to help her out, too.

My head falls back onto the pillow and I let out a low groan. The thought of sharing her makes my jaw clench. I like Pippa, and not just because I want to fuck her. I like talking to her, I like hanging out with her, and I like living with her. She makes those cupcakes for me. She’s funny, sweet, and beautiful.

We’re friends, I think. I don’t want her to bake cupcakes for another guy, or sing in the shower while he listens outside the door.

My head spins, and I realize I’m drunk. I haven’t been drunk in years.

I let my mind wander back to Pippa, and an idea trickles through my sluggish thoughts. On my phone, I search for a sex toy I’ve heard about. My pulse beats in my ears and I’m rock hard as I put the toy in my cart, address it to Pippa at the apartment, and pay for it.