Behind the Net: a grumpy sunshine hockey romance

“YOU’RE LETTING ME GO?” I repeat into my phone the next morning, blinking at nothing. I’m at Hazel’s front door, putting my shoes on to leave for Jamie’s place. My mind reels, and my forehead wrinkles in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

The woman in the team’s office sighs. “Don’t take it personally. These guys can be so particular.”

My stomach sinks. Fired after one day. This isn’t going to look good when I apply for the marketing job with the team.

I really thought I killed it yesterday. I unpacked most of his things, and Daisy was nice and tired by the time he got home. It was actually fun, walking her and playing music in the apartment while she followed me around.

Panic starts to bleed through my thoughts. Shit. I need money now. I need to move out of Hazel’s tiny studio. I can’t go back to the Hot Dog Hut—I gag at just the memory of the creepy way the owner looked at me. Not to mention the way I smelled after my shifts.

Fired. My parents are going to flip out. After wasting my life following Zach around on tour for two years, they desperately want me to have a career in marketing—what I went to school for. They’re obsessed with me having a stable, consistent job. A desk job. Something with benefits. Something not in the music industry. They worked really hard to pay for my education. My parents aren’t rich or anything, and they sacrificed a lot for me and Hazel to have what they didn’t.

I want them to be proud of me.

I thank the woman, hang up, and stare at the floor. Reality hits me, and my shoulders sink. This sucks.

Beside me, the door opens and slams into me. I scramble to move out of the way, but trip over one of my moving boxes, landing flat on my ass.

“Sorry!” Hazel’s eyes are wide as she helps me up. “Are you okay?”

I rub my arm, wincing. “I’m fine. I shouldn’t have been standing in front of the door.”

Her apartment is a tiny studio because Vancouver is expensive as hell. Hence why I need this job if I’m going to move out.

“How’d it go yesterday?” She heads to the corner with the kitchen and pulls out smoothie ingredients.

When I got home last night, she was teaching a yoga class. Outside of working as a physio for the team, teaching yoga is Hazel’s true passion. She had an early morning class today before work.

I fill her in on the disappointing news I just received, and her jaw drops. “And they didn’t even say why?”

“Nope.” A prickle of rage pokes me between my ribs, and my stomach tenses. “He was a real dick, though. Barely said two words to me the whole time. He just did this smoldery, glowering thing with his eyes.” I narrow my eyes and grunt.

Hazel raises a dark eyebrow. Her hair is darker than mine, a chocolate brown against my dishwater blond. “Do you think he remembers you?”

“No. Not at all.” I slip my shoes off and set them in the front hall closet. “He didn’t even introduce himself.”

She makes a face from the kitchen area. “Rude.”

“Right?” I shake my head as I flop back down onto the couch. “So rude. Like, I know he’s a hot, rich celebrity, but I’m still a person, you know?”

“Totally.” Hazel’s nodding vehemently, ponytail bouncing. “You’re a person. You deserve respect.”

“Respect?” I sputter. “He doesn’t know that word. He treated me like I was a flea who belongs in the garbage.”

Hazel bares her teeth. “I hate him. Hockey players.” Her eyes narrow. “They’re the worst.”

Hazel dated a hockey player in university, but he cheated on her. It was a whole thing. I don’t bring it up.

“The worst,” I echo, folding my arms over my chest. My foot taps a staccato rhythm on the floor, and knots form in my stomach. I did great yesterday, and I’m perfect for this job.

After Zach, my confidence took a hit, but now this? Way to kick a girl when she’s down.

My mind flashes back to a month ago, in the airport, waiting for my flight home. The tour manager had arranged my Uber, which I thought would take me to the meeting spot for the tour bus so we could all travel to the next location. Instead, it went to the airport, and when I started phoning people in confusion, no one answered.

Finally, Zach called me back.

“Ah, shit,” he said. “Did she already send you to the airport? I was going to talk to you first.”

He dumped me over the phone. He said we were different people now, that we weren’t teenagers anymore, and that he wanted to see who he was apart from me. We dated for eight years, since grade ten, and he had his employee send me away.

When he was offered the tour in our last year of university, he arranged for me to work on it, assisting the tour coordinator so we didn’t have to do long distance. When he was stuck on a song, we worked through it, me on my guitar, helping him with lyrics. I put my whole life on hold to follow him around while he lived out his dreams.

My face burns, thinking about how I cried in the airport bathroom, feeling so lost and alone. So unwanted, like a bag of trash on the side of the road.

Guys like Zach and Jamie? They think the world revolves around them. They think they can dispose of people after they lose interest. Shame surges in my stomach, followed immediately by fury.

I’m so sick of being that girl, the one who gets disposed of.

I sit up straight, feeling fired up. “I’m going to confront him.”

“Um.” Hazel’s eyes go wide, hands paused on the blender. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

My pulse races at the idea of telling off Jamie Streicher. I’m sick of getting stepped on by men.

“You’re always saying that I need to tell the universe what I want,” I tell Hazel.

“Yeah, the universe. Not him. He’ll probably call the police.”

“He won’t call the police.” I picture him physically removing me from his home, throwing me over his shoulder. A weird twinge hits me between the legs. Oh. I like that idea.

Whatever. Not the point. He’s king of the assholes, but I need this job.

Hazel barks a laugh. “This is how you end up on the front page of the newspaper. Local Hockey Star Accosted by Insane Stalker.”

“I’m not going to stalk him. I’m going to get my job back.”

Maybe she’s right and going in with guns blazing isn’t the best approach. She turns back to the counter to make her smoothie, and when she opens the cupboard, I spot the muffin tin I used last week.

An idea hits me. Hazel’s right—if I show up and demand my job back, he’ll think I’m a psycho.

If I show up with cupcakes, though, I’ll just be reinforcing what a great assistant I’d be. No one calls the police on someone who brings cupcakes.

When I tell Hazel my plan, she laughs. “I’ll keep my phone on in case I need to bail you out.”

Two hours later, the cupcakes are cooled and decorated. On the outside, they’re perfectly iced, topped with fun, colorful sprinkles. These cupcakes are filled with my rage, though. I really beat the shit out of the batter while I made them, pouring all my frustration from Zach and Jamie and my crappy life situation into it.

From the schedule Jamie gave me, I know he’ll be home in ten minutes, so I pack the cupcakes into a container and get ready to leave.

Hazel grins at me as I slip my shoes on. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

On the walk to Jamie’s apartment, it starts to rain. I forgot that Vancouver’s weather can turn on a dime, so I’m not wearing my coat with the hood. At a stoplight, I chew my lip, wondering if I should turn back and get my other jacket.

No. I can already feel the hesitation wavering in my stomach. If I turn back, I won’t go through with this.

I need that job. I need the money. I need to give Hazel space at the apartment, and I need an in with the team so I can get the marketing job and move on with my life. This is happening.

I’m getting my job back.