Behind the Net: a grumpy sunshine hockey romance

CAN WE TALK?

Ten days after New Year’s, I stand at the kitchen counter, staring at the text I just received from Zach.

My mouth goes dry as I read it again and again. It can’t be real, and yet, that’s his number. The last texts we exchanged were back in August, a couple days before he dumped me, when I was picking up coffee for myself and wanted to know if he wanted anything.

Disgust stirs in my gut. He had the audacity to take my song, and now he wants to talk?

I block him and delete the text history.

Jamie opens the door of the apartment, and I jump. He shoots me that handsome, disarming smile I’m addicted to, and thoughts of Zach vanish.

The second Jamie flew home from Silver Falls, he had to leave for a ten-day away game streak, but now he’s back. I rush over to hug him. At our feet, Daisy does her excited tippy-taps on the floor, tail wagging a mile a minute in excitement.

“You’re home,” I say into Jamie’s neck while he presses a kiss to the top of my head. His arms around me, pulling me into his hard chest, is the ultimate comfort.

“Finally.” He presses another kiss to my temple, and when I lean back to look up at him, his eyes go soft. “I’ve been wanting to do this for ten days.”

He kisses me, and I sigh into him. His mouth on mine is pure relief, sweet and careful, until he groans and sweeps his tongue between my lips. His stubble lightly scratches me, and heat pulses through me.

“Missed you,” he murmurs against my lips between kisses. “I love coming home to you.”

My heart soars like it did on New Year’s Eve, when I sang on stage. Like when we told each other we have feelings for each other. It can’t be healthy to experience heart palpitations like this so often, but I don’t care.

Jamie pulls away, looks down at Daisy, and picks her up. “Missed you, too,” he tells her. She licks at his ear, wiggling in his arms, and he grimaces while I laugh.

This man with a dog is almost too cute to be legal.

“I was just about to take her for a walk.”

Daisy hears the word walk and her head whips to me. Jamie smiles and gives her another scratch.

“I’ll go with you.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re walking through Stanley Park. Vancouver is experiencing a cold snap, and snow falls lightly around us, coating the towering emerald trees. People hate driving in the snow in Vancouver, so except for our boots crunching on the snow, downtown and the park are quiet.

“Your mom seemed really good the other day.” Hazel and I took Daisy for a walk with Donna a couple days ago, before it snowed.

He makes a pleased noise in his throat, smiling at the ground as we walk. “She has an appointment with a doctor on Tuesday.”

I light up, smiling at him. “She does? For medication?”

He nods, relief spreading over his features. “Yep.”

“That’s great.” God, I’m so happy to hear this. Not just because Jamie has spent so long taking care of her. Donna is a really lovely person, and she’s been through so much. She deserves to feel better and have the tools to deal with her panic attacks.

We walk in comfortable silence for a while before Jamie nudges me.

“The video has over three million views.”

My stomach wobbles. “I know. Don’t remind me.”

Hayden took a video of me singing on New Year’s Eve and, after asking me, he posted it on his TikTok. It went viral, but I’m pretending it doesn’t exist. Just thinking about that many people seeing me sing one of my own songs makes me sick with nerves. I made the terrible mistake of reading the comments on the video, and while most of them were complimentary, I can’t shake the few ugly ones out of my head.

She’s nothing special. This is boring. She’s not even playing the guitar. That’s just for show. This song sucks. They only let her up there because she’s hot.

I couldn’t write music for months because Zach hurt my feelings. How could I ever have a career with thousands of Zachs out there, saying even worse things? Maybe saying them to my face, every day?

“Hey.” Jamie stops walking and reaches for me, putting his arm around my shoulder and pulling me to his side. “I’m proud of you. That took guts, getting up there.”

I nod with a noise of acknowledgment, but my anxiety about the whole thing bleeds into my forced smile. He watches me for a long moment.

“We do a visualization exercise with one of the sports psychologists on the team,” he says, studying me. “She has me picture the game. I imagine the other team’s forwards trying to score on me and what the puck feels like in my glove or hitting my blocker. I picture each of their guys and every scoring configuration I can think of. The more specific I am, the better.” He arches his brow. “I think you should try that, but with music.”

A frown slides onto my face as I think about enduring mean comments for the rest of my life. “I don’t really want to picture people booing me.” A light laugh scrapes out of me to hide my discomfort.

“Not that. Picture the career you want. Picture your dream, songbird.” His hand slips from my shoulder down to my gloved hand, and he gives it a squeeze. “You’ve been stuck in this loop for months. It’s time to picture something new.”

He’s right, I realize. All I do is think about the past, and it’s holding me back. Every time I even consider music, I think about what happened to warn myself away. I keep putting my own barriers up in my path.

My throat is thick as I swallow, glancing up at him with hesitance. His warm, confident expression bolsters me, and I nod. “Okay.”

“Close your eyes.”

I glance around. It’s just us and Daisy, who’s busy sniffing the side of the path. I take a deep breath and let my eyes fall closed.

The forest is almost silent except for Daisy’s sniffing. Cold flakes land on my cheeks and nose, and the air smells clean and crisp.

I picture myself on stage. It’s a small show, and I’m opening for a bigger artist. There are a couple hundred people in the crowd.

No. I catch myself, opening my eyes, blinking up at Jamie, who’s still watching me with a small smile on his face. I want more than being the opener. My eyes close and I try again.

I’m on stage in an arena. I’m the headliner, and my dream guitar is slung across my chest. I’m touring with my new album that I recorded with my dream producer, Ivy Matthews. She’s known in the music industry for being eccentric and picky as hell, but she’s supremely talented at creating unique and authentic musicians. Behind me, a hand-picked band of kind, talented musicians is ready. I’m wearing something that makes me feel gorgeous and strong, and my hair is loose around my shoulders.

“I’m Pippa Hartley,” I say into the mic, and they cheer. Every person in this arena bought tickets to see me, but I like to introduce myself at the beginning of every show. It’s my thing.

I glance to the wings. Jamie’s standing there, looking proud, and I smile at him.

“And this is a song about falling in love.”

In my mind, I launch into the song, the band begins to play, the arena fills with sound and light, and it’s fucking spectacular.

My eyes open, and I beam up at Jamie. Tears well up in my eyes, because what I just imaged was so sweet. My chest aches for it.

“I don’t want the marketing job.” My voice is hushed.

He nods, serious. “I know.”

A weight settles in my stomach. When I told my parents I passed the second interview with flying colors, they could hear the false cheerfulness in my voice.

I wish they could be proud of me. I wish I didn’t have to shove myself into some job I don’t want to gain their approval. My throat tightens with the ugly realization. I know their intentions are good; they tie happiness to financial stability, because it’s what they lacked growing up.

I didn’t, though. Working a job I don’t like won’t make me happy, even if it does pay my bills. My heart twists in my chest, and like he can feel it, Jamie’s hand is on my back, rubbing slow, calming circles.

I got swept up in what they wanted, just like with Zach. Jamie looks at me right now the same way he looks at me every time I’m about to step up on a stage—like I can do anything. The flame in my chest is a pilot light, fueled by memories of singing on New Year’s and recording songs that I wrote in the living room. That fire is my love of music, the way I feel like I’m flying when I sing my heart out. It’s the reason I can’t walk away from the music industry even though I tried. Something sharp and glowing rushes through my blood, and I suck a breath in.

I’ll figure out how to tell my parents. The idea of letting them down makes my stomach clench, but it’s what I need to do.

“You want to tell me what you pictured?” Jamie’s mouth tilts. “You don’t have to.”

Jamie isn’t Zach. He’d never laugh at me, never tell me my dreams are stupid or that I should stay in my lane.

“I want to.”

I tell him everything, and when I’m done, his eyes are bright with affection and excitement.

“Would you ever reach out to her?”

I blanch. “Who? Ivy Matthews?”

He nods.

“Um.” I blink. My instinct is to say no, but I catch myself again.

No more putting up roadblocks for myself. No more letting what Zach said weigh me down. If I want what I imagined just now, I’m going to have to do scary things… like send my music to people who could reject me.

“I guess I could.” Determination pours into my blood, and I nod at Jamie. “Yeah. I’m going to do it.”

His smile is so broad, it makes my heart break open. “Good girl.”

I laugh, and he slings an arm around my shoulder as we keep walking.

While Jamie is at the gym that afternoon, I study Ivy Matthews’ website. There’s an email address, but no information about whether she takes submissions. She probably wouldn’t want to work with me unless I’m signed by a record label. She didn’t even want to work with Zach. His manager tried to arrange something with her and she turned them down. He was so angry about the rejection.

This is such a long shot, it’s not even funny, but I told Jamie I’d do this. I write a brief, professional message about my experience in the music industry and attach links for my viral video and the songs I wrote for Jamie for Christmas.

Hesitation rears its ugly head again and again, but shoving it away gets a little easier each time.

I hit send and blow out a long breath. Even if nothing will come of it—and I’m certain that’s the case—I tried. I took one step forward.

That evening, I’m about to feed Daisy dinner when my phone rings with an unknown number, and I answer.

“Is this Pippa Hartley?” a woman asks.

“That’s me.” I drop the cup of dog kibble into Daisy’s slow-feeder bowl, and she races to eat it.

“My name is Marissa Strong. I’m Ivy Matthews’ assistant.”

My brain stops working.

There’s a pause. “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “I’m here. Just wondering if I’m hallucinating.”

She laughs. “Yeah. I get that response sometimes. I saw your submission and passed it along to Ivy. She’s in town recording, and the band has wrapped up early, so she’s free tomorrow. If you’re free, she’d like to record a demo with you.”

I’m staring at nothing. I don’t think I even have a pulse right now.

“There’s absolutely no guarantee anything will happen with the demo,” Marissa continues, all business, but her tone changes to something thoughtful. “There’s something interesting about you, though, and she’s curious.”

Something interesting about me. My pulse kicks in, and I try to breathe.

“I’m free,” I say, feeling breathless. I can’t believe this. “I’ll be there.”