Page 24 of Behind the Net

It’s made from a mix of walnut, mahogany, and spruce wood. In the video I watched, the guitar sounded warm, rich, and full. The company only made a thousand of them, and there’s one right in front of me.

I bet the inside of that guitar smells incredible. I think this is what they callinstalove.

I want it. I want it so freaking badly. I can’t afford it, though. If I get the marketing job and I’m very, very good with my money, maybe I can find one in a year or two.

I catch myself. Why am I pining over my dream guitar when I can’t even pick up the one I have? There’s a sharp ache in my chest.

I realize Jamie’s watching me watch the guitar, wearing a curious expression.

“Sorry,” I chirp, turning away from the guitar. “Let’s go.”

* * *

When he leaves for his game that evening, he actually says goodbye.

“Break a leg,” I tell him, sitting on the floor of the living room, training Daisy to “leave it.”

His eyebrow goes up in alarm. “Good luckis fine.”

I picture the brutality of hockey and how breaking a leg isn’t that unrealistic. “Sorry. Good luck.”

He nods once before he’s gone.

That evening, I’m lying in bed, thinking about the conversation we had at the dog park. I replay Jamie’s facial expressions, the amused spark in his eyes as he listened to me talk, the piercing gleam as he talked about hockey and why he loves it.

I wish I could see him smile. I picture it, and my stomach flutters.

And there it is—a trill of notes in my head. I sit up in the dark bedroom. It’s just a few notes, but it’s that same feeling as before, when I’d sit with Zach on a couch with my guitar and we’d goof around. It’s a sparkling pressure in my chest, like fizzing bubbles. I place my hand over my sternum, smiling out the window, and I’m so relieved I could cry.

Zach didn’t break me. That girl I used to be is still in there. I just have to find a way to get her out.

I think about Jamie again, and I wonder if it has anything to do with him.

CHAPTER13

JAMIE

“Streicher,”Ward calls as I head to the dressing room after practice. “My office when you’re done.”

My gut pitches as I give him a quick nod and head to the showers. Getting called to the coach’s office is like going to the principal’s office. In the shower, I run through my recent games and practices. If Ward’s going to bring up my weaknesses, I need to be ready.

His office door is open when I arrive, and he looks up from his computer.

“Hey.” He stands. “Let’s get some lunch.” He tilts his head to the street below his office window. “I know a place.”

A weight gathers in my gut. If it was something easy, we’d just talk in his office. Lunch means a bigger conversation, and whatever it is, I’m not excited to hear it.

Ward makes small talk as we leave the arena and walk through the streets of downtown Vancouver.

“This way,” he says, stepping down an alley.

I raise an eyebrow and glance down the narrow lane, but he’s walking with purpose and direction, so I follow him to a green door. Above it, a weathered sign readsThe Filthy Flamingo. He hauls it open, and classic rock spills out at a low volume.

“After you, Streicher.”

I step inside. It’s a bar, with warm wood paneling on the walls, vintage framed concert posters, Polaroid photos behind the bar among liquor bottles, and string lights across the ceiling. People sit in the booths, eating lunch.

“You took me to a dive bar?” I ask Ward as the door closes behind us.

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