Behind the Net: a grumpy sunshine hockey romance

THAT EVENING, just before sunset, I park in the driveway of a suburban home in North Vancouver, bag of Greek food sitting in the passenger seat. There’s an informal dinner for the players tonight, a get-to-know-you type of thing for the new guys, but I ignored the invite. From the back seat, Daisy wags her tail, curious and excited. I take a deep breath.

I can’t fucking believe I told Pippa to move in with me. With her watching the dog, though, I’ll have lots of time to keep an eye on my mom.

From the back seat, Daisy leans her head on my shoulder, sniffing me, and I send her a side-long glance. A weird feeling grows in my chest.

Am I… starting to like this dog? I frown at her, and she pants and wags her tail. I snort.

“Come on.” I get out of the car, let Daisy out, and walk up to the small home.

The house is modest—firmly middle class. I tried to buy my mom something bigger when I went pro, but she refused. She said she didn’t want to leave the neighborhood she’d lived in for years. That she liked the neighbors and didn’t want to make new friends.

As I near the front door, movement on the roof catches my eye and my heart stops.

My mom is on the roof, wearing thick gardening gloves. She waves with a big smile. “Hi, honey.”

Blood beats in my ears. She can’t be up there. My mind races, picturing her having a panic attack up on the roof, slipping and falling, cracking her head open on the pavement.

“What are you doing up there?” I demand. Daisy barks up at my mom, wagging her tail.

My mom grins wide at me. “Cleaning the gutters.”

“Get down. Now.” I’m using my firmest voice. “It’s getting dark out.”

“I can see just fine. I’m just finishing up, anyway.” She chuckles and drops a fistful of leaves on me. They flutter down to my feet, and Daisy jumps and tries to bite one.

“Jamie, honey? Whose dog is that?”

I raise an eyebrow at Daisy, who’s sitting with her tail sweeping back and forth on the pavement. The corner of my mouth twitches as her eyes widen. She thinks she’s getting a treat.

Maybe a little part of me is starting to like this dog.

“Mine,” I tell my mom. “I got a dog.”

My mom lights up, clapping. “You did? Oh, Jamie, that’s great. That’s exactly what you need.”

“Can you please get down?” I’m feeling twitchy with her up on the roof, so high. “I’ll hire someone to do this.”

“Stop treating me like a child. I’m not incapable of living my life.”

Irritation rises in my gut. Irritation and something else, something angrier. I hate that she pretends she’s fine when she’s not. She’s always been like that. We never, ever talked about her depression or anxiety when I was growing up. We still haven’t talked about the car accident last year. My gaze sweeps to the open garage. Her car is fixed, and I wonder if she’s been driving. She’s not allowed to until she gets help.

She was driving friends home from the bar when she had the panic attack and rear-ended another car. Because of my late father’s struggles with alcoholism, she’s always the designated driver. I think one of her friends smelled like booze, and combined with driving at night, when my dad’s accident happened, it just set her off.

I don’t remember him—I was only a baby when he drove drunk and wrapped his car around a pole—but I resent him for leaving my mom with all this baggage. If not for him, maybe she wouldn’t have had depression while I was growing up. Maybe she wouldn’t have panic attacks.

“You’re not even clipped in.” My chest feels tight. “You could slip and fall.”

She rolls her eyes, making her way over to the ladder. “A meteor could bonk me in the head and kill me.” She descends the ladder, and my heart rate slows. “You worry too much.”

Internally, I deflate. Sometimes, I wish I was like her, but then who would hold our family together? Who would swoop in and answer my mom’s calls when she’s having an episode?

Daisy loves her immediately, of course. We head inside, and my mom putters around the kitchen, setting out the Greek food I brought while I grab plates. Daisy sniffs every square inch of the house.

“How are you settling into your new place?” she asks.

I feel the weird urge to tell her about Pippa. What would I even say? My assistant is a drop-dead gorgeous songbird who I had a crush on in high school. Who’s incredible with my dog. Who stocked the fridge with all the foods I like even though I barked “stuff” at her as a grocery list. And now she’s going to be living with me, sleeping on the other side of the wall.

Maybe doing other stuff on the other side of that wall. The thought goes straight to my cock.

“Fine,” I tell her. “It’s fine.”

She brings the plates to the table. “I want to come to a game.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She blinks at me like I’ve slapped her, and I immediately regret my words. I could have said it differently. It isn’t a good idea, though. The smell of alcohol is a trigger for her, and at a hockey game, everyone’s drinking. If something happens, she’ll take up my full attention, and I can’t lose focus on the ice.

“Jamie.” She gives me an indulgent look, but there’s irritation beneath it. “I had one little panic attack.”

One that she’s admitted.

Her eyes are on the lasagna as she dishes it out. “You’re treating me with kid gloves.”

That’s because you’re fragile and you don’t have the best track record of keeping it together, I think. And in my head, I’m ten and making my own school lunch during one of her low points of depression.

“Do you need any help moving in?” She moves to the kitchen, and I’m relieved that she’s dropped the idea of coming to a game.

“No. I’m all unpacked.”

She gives me a funny look. She knows how demanding my schedule is. “That was fast.”

I clear my throat. “I hired an assistant to help with Daisy and other stuff.”

My mom blinks at me. A smile stretches across her face. “You? You hired someone to help you?”

“It’s not a big deal.” I give her a hard look, but the corner of my mouth tugs up.

She laughs. “If you say so.” As she passes, she nudges me with her elbow. “That’s great, honey.”

Warmth spreads in my chest. I duck my head, embarrassed. “Yeah, well.” I shrug. “She does a lot of things for me that save time so I can focus on hockey.”

“She?” Her head tilts and her eyes sparkle.

My gut dips, and my gaze darts to my mom. I shrug again. “Yeah.”

The back of my neck heats.

“What’s her name?” My mom’s eyes are like lasers, and there’s that little twitch at the corner of her mouth.

I hold my face neutral, not wanting to give anything away, even as my pulse picks up at the thought of my pretty assistant. “Pippa.”

Please don’t ask where she’s from, I beg silently. I’ll blurt out that we went to the same high school and then it’ll all come tumbling out.

She makes a pleased, humming noise. “Pretty name. How old is she?”

She smells blood in the water.

I’m twenty-six, which puts Pippa at twenty-four. “I don’t know.”

“Guess.”

My skin tingles. She knows. She so fucking knows. “A little younger than me.”

“Hmmm.” She smiles, nodding, watching me. “Interesting.”

I stay silent.

“Is she pretty?”

I rake a hand through my hair. “I don’t know.”

“I mean, you have eyes, don’t you?” She asks it so innocently, like she doesn’t know the answer.

I blow out a long breath, frustrated with my mom but also with myself, because I shouldn’t have this inconvenient crush.

And I sure as shit shouldn’t have demanded she move in with me.

“Yes, okay?” I rush out. “She’s very pretty and she has a beautiful singing voice and Daisy loves her.”

My mom rolls her lips to hide a smile, but her eyes are bright.

“What?” I demand.

She bursts out laughing.

I groan. She has a way of getting things out of me.

She smiles at me as she takes a seat across the table, tilting her head. “Erin was a long time ago.” She says it quietly, and my lungs tighten. “I saw her on a new TV show. She’s the star.”

My jaw tenses so hard my teeth might crack, and I think back to seven years ago, during my rookie year. Erin Davis, the supermodel on her way to the top who shocked the fashion industry when she left modeling abruptly. Over the past few years, she’s been acting. I look her up once in a while to see if she’s still working.

My mom thinks Erin and I broke up because I couldn’t handle hockey and a relationship, which is technically true. She doesn’t know that when Erin told me her period was a week late, I panicked. Erin was so excited, and I had terror written all over my face. We were nineteen, for Christ’s sake. It was my rookie year and I was working harder at hockey than ever. Every chance I could, I was flying home to visit my mom. My best friend growing up, Rory Miller, wasn’t interested in being friends now that we played for separate hockey teams. Everything was different and I was barely holding it together. Adding another commitment to my life was terrifying. I would have done it, though, no matter how hard it was.

She got her period a day later, but the damage was done. We both knew the relationship was over, and a week later, I saw the news about her leaving modeling. She fell off the face of the planet for almost five years.

Guilt squeezes my lungs. That’s why I don’t do relationships anymore. Because Erin wanted so much more than I was able to give her. Because it was casual for me, and I broke her fucking heart and blew up her life. She was so traumatized, she left a promising career.

I did that.

Maybe I wasn’t in love with her, but she was a nice person, and she deserved so much more than the half-assed attention I was able to give her. If we had ended up having a baby, that kid would deserve so much more than the limited time I could give them.

I’ll never hurt someone the way I hurt Erin.

When I retire from hockey, I’ll have time for that stuff—a relationship, maybe getting married, maybe having kids. If I stay fit and keep my head in the game, I can play until my mid-thirties. Until then, those other things aren’t part of the plan.

“Jamie?”

My head whips toward my mom. She’s looking at me with a curious, soft expression.

“There’s more to life than hockey, you know.”

I nod and make a noise of acknowledgment, but she doesn’t get it. After seeing Pippa cry the other day, it’s not going to happen. I know I don’t have time for her, and I can’t crush her like her ex did, and like I crushed Erin.

“And I still want to go to a game.” She widens her eyes at me in an affectionate I mean business way. “I’ll sit in the nosebleeds if I have to.”