Page 102 of Behind the Net

We pile inside, and my dad remarks again about what a surprise it is to havetheJamie Streicher in his home, which is both cute and totally embarrassing, but Jamie doesn’t seem to mind. He just smiles and answers my dad’s questions.

Hazel walks in and Jamie nods at her. “Hazel.”

Surprisingly, she doesn’t glare at him. “Hi. You made it.”

He nods. “I did.”

Hazel glances at me, and she seems pleased. “Good.”

“Everyone, sit down,” my dad says, gesturing at the living room. “I’ll bring out some snacks. Jamie, do you want a beer?”

Jamie’s head dips. “A beer would be great.”

“What’s your preference?” I have a feeling that whatever Jamie said, my dad would run to the store to buy it right now.

“Whatever you have on hand,” Jamie says. “I’m not picky.”

“Miller Lite okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Good man.” My dad disappears, and weirdly, Jamie smiles again.

As we sit down in the living room, my gaze flicks to the outdated furniture and decor, the knickknacks on the shelves, and the dorky pictures of me and Hazel as kids. Jamie pauses in front of my grade two picture. In the photo, I’m smiling wide, ear to ear, pigtails sticking out on either side of my head. I’m missing my two front teeth.

Jamie tilts his head at the picture. “You get hit with a puck, Hartley?”

I groan, and my mom laughs.

“I forgot it was picture day,” she tells him. “You should have seen my face when Pippa came home and told me.”

Jamie’s eyes linger on the picture, and I think he’s smiling again. “Very cute.”

My dad hustles into the room with a tray of drinks and insists Jamie sit in the comfy La-Z-Boy chair where my dad usually sits while watching hockey. Internally, I’m cringing my face off, but Jamie is polite and friendly and indulges my dad in all his questions and conversation revolving solely around hockey.

Half an hour later, my mom checks the time. “I should put the chicken in the oven.” She looks at Jamie. “Do you eat chicken?”

“Uh.” He looks at me. “Yes?”

I send him a smile. “I hope you didn’t think you were leaving without staying for dinner.”

“Youhaveto stay for dinner, Jamie,” my dad scoffs.

Jamie chuckles. “I’d be happy to. Thank you.”

“Where are you staying?” my mom asks.

Jamie runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know yet. I saw a hotel on Main Street. I’m going to try there first.”

My dad’s eyes go wide. He’s so dramatic sometimes. “You don’t have a room booked?” He shakes his head in dismay. “It’s not going to happen. Everything gets booked up this time of year.”

My mom nods. “You have to stay with us.”

“What?” I choke. Jamie’s used to staying in five-star hotels with king-sized beds and HBO on the TV, not homes with furniture older than me. Hazel’s and my beds are from when we were teenagers, and the guest bed is even older. “Jamie doesn’t want to stay with us. We can find him an Airbnb or something.”

“At this time of night?” my dad asks, looking at me like I’m crazy. “Pippa, it’s almost five in the evening. I know it’s not much,” he says to Jamie, “but we have a guest bedroom with your name on it.”

I open my mouth to protest again, but Jamie nods at my parents. “I’d love to stay here.” I stare at him, and he glances at me with amusement in his eyes. “If it’s okay with Pippa.”

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