Behind the Net: a grumpy sunshine hockey romance

SHE’S SITTING at a table beside the window, wiping at her eyes, trying to hide her tears. Alarm shoots through me, and my protective instincts flare. In a shot, I’m inside, in front of her.

I glare at her. “Is this because I saw you in your towel?”

She frantically wipes the tears away, blinking rapidly. “No.” She laughs at herself, but it feels hollow. “That didn’t even register on my list of embarrassing experiences.” She clears her throat and forces a smile. “I’m fine.”

My chest hurts, watching her like this. I hate this.

“Tell me why you’re crying.” I cross my arms.

“I’m fine,” she says again, not meeting my eye. She reaches for her phone and her bag like she’s about to get up.

I lean over her, setting my hands on the table. I’m being an intimidating jackass, but I need to know why she’s crying so I can fix it.

“Tell me.” My voice is low, and her breath catches.

She slides her phone across the table before hitting Play. On the screen, that fucking Zach Hanson guy she dated in high school is singing on stage beside a woman.

I raise an eyebrow at Pippa.

Her eyes flash with anger. “He dumped me last month and now he’s on stage with someone new.” A fresh wave of tears spills over. I want to kill that guy for making her feel like this.

I glance back at the video, at that stupid asshole’s face. So they were still together until recently. He was scrawny in high school, and now, I can’t make out his build under his jacket, but he still looks small. I’m stronger, I bet.

“Stop crying,” I demand.

“I’m trying.” She takes a shaky breath. “Everything is totally shit right now. He has this shiny new muse, and I’m a loser living on my sister’s couch and begging for my job back.” Another tear rolls down her face.

My hand lifts and I catch myself just in time. What the fuck? Was I just about to wipe her tear away? I sit down across from her. My knee bounces as I figure out what to do about this.

I hate that guy. I hate him so fucking much. He has a soft, squishy, punchable face. Goalies almost never get into fights, but if that guy were on the ice at my game tomorrow, I wouldn’t hesitate.

My thoughts snag on what she said about living on her sister’s couch.

“So get your own place,” I tell her.

When she looks at me, she’s irritated. Good. At least it’s helping with the crying. Angry is better than sad. I can’t handle a sad Pippa.

“Vancouver’s expensive. I want to find something close to your place so I can get over there quickly if you need me.”

In the back of my mind, I like the way she says if you need me. A funny prickle moves over my skin, and I frown harder.

“You should go home.”

“I can’t.” Her face crumples, and I panic. Her sister’s teaching an online yoga class, she explains. “Why am I even talking to you about this? I’m okay. I just need to cry this out.”

I hate everything about this. Every protective instinct in my body surges with the need to make things better for her.

“Move in with me.”

We stare at each other. I don’t know where the fuck that came from. I’m not supposed to be spending more time with her; I’m supposed to be avoiding her.

Living with her isn’t keeping her at arm’s length.

She’s stopped crying, though. That’s something. She’s staring at me with a confused look.

The idea of her living in my apartment eases something in my chest.

“It’ll be easier on Daisy.” I’m scrambling.

I remember her singing when I got home, and my heart thumps harder. If she’s living with me, maybe I’ll hear her sing again.

Across the table, she’s chewing her lip with an uncertain expression. “I don’t know.”

My pulse is picking up. I picture her in my apartment, lying on the couch, reading a book with Daisy at her feet. Playing her guitar like she used to with her friends back in high school. My chest warms. I like that image.

I don’t care if this is a bad idea. I can’t let it go. Besides, I’m busy with hockey and visiting my mom in North Van. I won’t even see her.

And I won’t be worrying about her, so that’s something.

“You can’t be crying in public,” I tell her. Again, my voice comes out sharp and stern. Jackass. “It’s unprofessional. You’ll move in tomorrow.”

I watch her for any sign that she doesn’t want to do this, any fear or repulsion. But instead, she lets out a long breath and her face relaxes like she’s relieved.

My heart lifts.

The corner of her mouth curves up, and her eyes soften. “Okay.” She nods. “Thank you, Jamie.”

Something sparks down my spine. I like the way she says my name, sweet like that. I like the way she’s looking at me right now, like she likes me.

I jerk a nod at her and stand up.

“Tomorrow,” I repeat.

She nods, wiping her smeared mascara off. “Tomorrow.”

As I head upstairs, my pulse races like I’m in the middle of a game. I just threw a wrench into the well-oiled machine that is my life. Pippa is intoxicatingly pretty, and around her, my mind blanks, but I feel a twinge of excited anticipation that I haven’t experienced in a long time.