Behind the Net: a grumpy sunshine hockey romance

A FEW DAYS LATER, I’m standing in my kitchen in my boxers, staring out the window. It’s midnight, and the kitchen’s dim, only lit by the city lights.

I can’t sleep.

I’ve barely seen her all week. When I get home, she heads to her room or leaves to meet Hazel. I pour a glass of water and down half of it, thinking about the charge of electricity between us on Sunday afternoon. I wanted to kiss her so fucking badly.

I still do.

“Fuck,” I mutter before draining the glass.

The fear in her eyes when I asked her to play a song for me made me sick. Her ex fucked with her head, and now she can’t do the thing she loves.

I want more for her. I don’t want her to live with this fear. I want her to crush it and feel proud. Pippa’s strong—I saw it when she helped my mom with her panic attack.

I rub the bridge of my nose. I want more for her? I’m no one to her. She works for me. She doesn’t remember me. A twinge of guilt gets me in the gut. Maybe telling her to play for me was over the line.

There’s a noise behind me, and Pippa’s standing in the dim kitchen, looking just as surprised as I am.

She’s wearing pajamas, a silky mint green shorts set. The shorts are short, and her legs are long and smooth. Her hair is messy, like she’s been tossing and turning, and I don’t know why I like that idea so much. When my gaze snags on her top, lust surges in my blood.

Her nipples are peaked. Oh, fuck. My teeth grit, and it takes all my willpower to drag my gaze up.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says with a nervous smile.

I nod. “Me, neither.”

She moves past me and turns the kettle on before pulling her favorite tea out of the cupboard. Decaf vanilla chai. The wrappers are always in the garbage; she must drink a ton of that stuff.

“You’ve been avoiding me this week,” I say, and her hands falter as she rips the bag open.

“Um.” She blinks at the counter. “No, I haven’t.”

I stare at her, and finally, her gaze flicks to mine. A smile ghosts over her face and she laughs a little.

“Okay.” She sighs with a guilty wince. “I have.”

“Mhm.” I lean on the counter, and her gaze lingers on my abs.

Is it appropriate for me to be standing in front of her in my underwear? Probably not.

Do I care? I watch as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, tracing my abs with her gaze.

No. No, I do not. My blood hums with satisfaction as her eyes linger on my body.

“I didn’t take you for the kind of person who doesn’t pay their debts,” I tell her.

She huffs a laugh. “I wouldn’t say it’s a debt.”

“‘I owe you one.’ That’s what you said.”

“Jamie.” She rolls her eyes at me, smiling. I love the way she says my name in that teasing way.

I fold my arms over my chest, and her gaze lingers on my biceps. “What’s the holdup?”

She turns, busying herself with her tea. “You’ve had games and stuff.”

Not more than normal.

My mind wanders to a couple nights ago, after I got home from a game. When I turned on the TV, it was already on the sports channel. Was she watching my game?

Pride bursts in my chest at the thought of it.

“You’re stalling.”

Her eyes are on her tea, and the smell wafting off it is the same as her hair products—sweet, spicy, and warm. Comforting but sexy and intriguing. I have the urge to bury my face in her neck and huff.

She lifts her gaze to meet mine, and her eyes are full of vulnerability. “The last time I played for someone, they laughed at me.” Her voice is quiet.

Rage surges through my veins. I’ll kill them. “Who?” I demand in a low, lethal voice. “Tell me. Names. Now.”

She rolls her eyes. “Jamie.”

“Now.”

“It was Zach.” Her face is going red, a patch of pink on each cheek, and my fists clench while folded over my chest. “And his manager.” She blinks like she’s reliving it before she blinks again and she’s back here in the kitchen with me.

Just when I think this guy can’t get worse, he does.

I nod once. “That’s the song I want to hear.”

I’m such a fucking asshole.

Her eyes go wide. “What? No.”

“Yes.” My voice is firm and demanding. I’m a pushy, arrogant dick, but I don’t care.

Her hands twist, and she tries to cover up her nervousness with a fake smile. She’s scared, and it’s making my chest feel tight.

“Hey.” I lean down so my eyes are level with hers, and my hands come to her upper arms. There’s that incredible chai smell again. “When I was nine, I got hit with the puck.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

I nod and point to my wrist. “Right here. The puck pinged off the pipe, and I had forgotten my gloves, so I was wearing spares that were too big, so they shifted. It hurt like a motherfucker.”

Her expression is sympathetic. “I bet.”

My hand returns to her arm. I can feel her warmth through the silky fabric. My thumb strokes back and forth over the fabric, and her lips part.

“I didn’t want to get back on the ice. I was scared of getting hit again.”

Her eyebrows pull together, and the way she looks at me makes me want to scoop her up into a hug and never put her down. I’d never let her go. The way she’s looking at me makes me want to protect her from the world and assholes like her ex.

Her mouth slides into a rueful smile. “I don’t want to get back on the ice,” she whispers, nose wrinkling. Even in the dim light, her freckles are so pretty. “I’m scared of getting hit again.”

This moment in my kitchen feels like we’re the only people on the planet. In the back of my mind, a warning bell rings, but I ignore it. I’ll deal with that later. Right now, Pippa needs me.

I give her a squeeze. “You can do it. I got back on the ice, and it was okay. Remember when my mom had a panic attack? You nailed it, songbird. You did everything right. You’re tough as nails deep down, I know it.”

Her brow rises. “Songbird?”

I didn’t mean to call her that—it just slipped out. It’s perfect for her, though. “Mhm.”

She bites her bottom lip. She wants to do it. I know she does.

“Tell you what.” I give her arms another squeeze while I study the blue of her eyes. “Half a song. That’s all.”

The long line of her throat moves as she swallows, gaze locked on mine like I’m a life raft. I want to be that for her.

I let her go and straighten up. “Come on.” My tone has turned authoritative. “Let’s go.”

“Now?” Her eyebrows go sky-high. “Like, right now?”

“Yep.” I stride to the couch and drop down, slinging an arm over the back. “Now.”

Her gaze lingers on me on the couch, on my abs, my pecs, my arms, and for a brief moment—my crotch. My dick twitches with interest, and there’s a pulse of something hot low in my gut.

Let her look all she wants.

“Quit stalling.”

“You’re so bossy,” she says, shaking her head as she disappears up the stairs to get her guitar. She says it in a resigned way, but there’s something else in her voice. Something amused by my bossiness.

I lean back and lace my hands behind my head, and when she returns, guitar in hand, she stops short at the sight of me.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Can you put a shirt on?”

Her gaze snags on my stomach, and I feel like smiling again. I know what I look like. “Why?”

I know why, but I don’t care. Watching my pretty assistant get flustered is fun.

She gives me a flat look and gestures at my torso and arms. “All of that.”

There’s a pressure in my chest, warm and crackling, like laughter. My mouth hitches into a smirk. “No.”

“Stubborn, too,” she mutters, and I smile at her.

She freezes, watching my face with a funny look. Like awe or something.

“What?”

“You’re smiling.” Her pretty lips curve into her own smile. Her gaze roams my face, and my skin prickles with awareness.

Suddenly, I want her a lot closer. In my lap. Straddling me, maybe. Her hands in my hair, and mine in hers.

She tucks her chin down, cheeks going pink again. “Alright, Jamie Streicher. Your smile makes me feel like playing.” She takes a deep breath and strums. The opening notes ring out.

She starts to sing, and something in my chest locks into place.