Behind the Net: a grumpy sunshine hockey romance

THREE DAYS LATER, I’m sitting on the private plane with the rest of the team, waiting for take-off, when I send Pippa a note that I’m on my way.

Daisy’s looking forward to it! she responds, and I smile at my phone. We’ve been texting during my entire trip, sending each other photos throughout our days. I catch myself studying her photos, memorizing them, and looking forward to the next one.

An email notification pops up on my screen. Shipment out for delivery.

My eyes narrow, because I don’t remember ordering something to the apartment. Pippa usually handles that stuff on the credit card I gave her.

Good news! Your purchase is out for delivery and should arrive later today.

(1) Satisfyer – personal toy with clitoral suction for her toe-curling pleasure!

My heart stops.

I fucking forgot.

Oh, fuck. My pulse restarts at a sprint as the memory rushes back—lying on my bed in my boxers, hard as steel, buying Pippa a sex toy.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. No. Shit. I can’t believe I did that. This is not okay. She works for me. She never asked for this. She’s trying to keep things professional. I’m trying to keep things professional. My throat closes up.

“You okay, Streicher?” Volkov asks beside me and I nod tersely.

“Fine,” I mutter, heart going a mile a minute.

Fuck.

The tracking link says it’s due to arrive half an hour after I get home. My skin feels hot, and I’m sweating. If I rush, I might be able to make it home to intercept the package.

I picture Pippa receiving it with a horrified, disgusted expression. All the text conversations this week, the smiles she gives me, the walks we go on—I’ve ruined it all.

Whatever Pippa is to me, I just blew it up.

“Cabin crew,” the pilot says over the intercom, “prepare for departure.”

The flight attendants ensure everyone is buckled in and the plane door closes. My pulse races, and I’m stuck on this fucking airplane for five hours, praying Pippa doesn’t get the package before I do.

The second we land, I’m out of my seat, hauling my bag out of the overhead bin. The guys shoot me wary looks.

“Excuse me,” I say in a sharp tone as I head to the front. The plane is still taxiing along the runway, and one of the flight attendants rolls his eyes at my behavior.

I don’t care if I’m being rude. I need to be the first one off this plane. If I don’t get there in time, I’m fucked, and it’s not even about having to find a new assistant. If she sees I sent her a sex toy, I’ve just lost the only person I actually like in this city.

My stomach knots and nausea rolls through me.

I’m right behind the flight crew as they open the door. If this was a regular flight instead of a private plane, or if I wasn’t known for hockey in this city, I’d probably be arrested with the way I’m acting. Instead, the flight crew just look unimpressed as one of them gestures for me to go ahead.

“Sorry,” I mutter at her as I rush past. “It’s an emergency.”

I sprint through the airport. With my height and frame, in this city, I’m easily recognizable. People are gawking, taking photos and videos. I must look like the fucking Terminator, running like this. My bag catches on someone’s elbow and they stumble.

“Sorry,” I yell over my shoulder, still running.

There’s a special airport exit for private flights, thank fuck. I wait for the person in front of me, breathing hard, sweat beading on my forehead.

There’s no update on the package’s location. Still out for delivery. I swallow past the knives in my throat. My nerves are shot, and I’ve never felt this tightly wound. Not before a big game, not when I found out my mom was having panic attacks, never.

I don’t know what that means, and I’m not going to deal with it now.

The person at the exit gives me a long look while they process my passport. The moment he recognizes me, I see it in his eyes. More guilt forms in my gut; if I wasn’t a professional hockey player wearing a suit that cost more than most people’s paycheck, I’d be hauled into questioning for looking shady as fuck.

“Have a good day, Mr. Streicher,” he says, gesturing me through. “Give us more of those Streicher shut outs.”

“You got it,” I call as I hurry out the doors.

The Uber is waiting for me outside, and I slide in. I left my car at the apartment in case Pippa needed it.

“Five hundred bucks to get me home as fast as you can,” I tell the driver, pulling the bills out of my wallet.

The next twenty minutes are excruciating. The driver rides the gas and brake, driving so far over the speed limit I don’t even want to look, and is honked at a dozen times. My knee bounces as I grit my teeth, alternating between staring out the window and refreshing the tracking page.

When we pull up in front of my building, I shove the bills at him and race out of the car. The elevator takes a century to arrive, and another century to get to the top floor. A tiny old lady gets off on the tenth floor, and I have to hold back from shoving her out of the elevator to get her to move faster. I’m crawling out of my skin with impatience.

The elevator finally opens on the top floor, and I’m at the front door in a shot.

No package on the floor. My pulse beats in my ears. I’m not in the clear yet—it could be inside or with the concierge downstairs.

Inside the apartment, it’s quiet. Daisy trots over, tail wagging, and I absentmindedly pick her up, petting her while scanning the apartment, opening the cupboard below the sink to check the recycling.

No Pippa. No package. No empty box. A quick call downstairs confirms they didn’t receive a package either. Relief eases through me, and the knots in my gut untie, one by one.

It hasn’t arrived yet. I sigh and lean back against the front door to catch my breath. I just aged a decade. I give Daisy one more scratch before setting her down, and she returns to the couch and goes back to sleep. As my pulse slows, I scrub a hand down my face.

That was so fucking close. Too close.

In the upstairs hallway, I’m heading to my room to change out of my suit when a noise stops me in my tracks. A gasp. I stare at Pippa’s door.

A fast, rhythmic tapping sound, like a whir, followed by a breathy moan.

All the blood in my body rushes to my cock. I didn’t beat the toy home. It got here before me, and my pretty assistant is currently using it in her bedroom.