Page 115 of Behind the Net

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.

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