Page 35 of Behind the Net

A muscle yanks in my stomach and my shoulders tense. I have no reason to be pissed. I have zero claim on him. He’s my boss and roommate and that’s it. I just… really don’t like them touching him like that and looking at him with stars in their eyes.

“What the fuck?” Hazel hisses at my side. “You brought him here?”

We didn’t have a chance to talk alone before class. “He didn’t give me a choice.”

We watch the other teachers take a flurry of pictures. “He’s really flexible.” She slides a coy glance at me.

“Stop it.” I hide a laugh.

Her expression is all innocence.

Jamie finishes taking photos and heads over to us.

“Good class,” he tells Hazel with a nod. “Thanks.” He holds his hand out. “I’m Jamie.”

She takes it warily. “Hazel.”

“You work with the team.”

Surprise flicks over her features. “Yes.” She mentions the senior physiotherapists she works with, and Jamie nods.

“The other players could benefit from something like this.”

Hazel just shrugs, but I can tell she’s trying not to smile. She can be guarded, especially with men, but deep down, she wants people to walk out of her classes feeling good, even if they are pro hockey players.

“Join us for lunch,” he tells her.

Yoga, and now lunch. My stomach flutters, and I tell it to shut up. He’s probably starving and doesn’t know how to ditch me, or he doesn’t want to be rude. I stare at Hazel, and she stares back at me. In our gazes, we’re having a full conversation.

“She’d love to,” I say, smiling at Jamie.

* * *

Jamie takes us to a strange, dingy bar in an alley in Gastown.

“The Filthy Flamingo,” I read on the sign above the door.

“Don’t say it’s a dive bar,” he tells us as he holds the door open.

Hazel and I pause at the front door, letting our eyes adjust. They’re playing “Tangerine,” my favorite Led Zeppelin song. The inside of the bar is cozy and warm, and I immediately love this place—the vintage concert posters, the photos behind the bar, the twinkling lights stretching across the ceiling.

Behind the counter, a woman mixes drinks. She’s gorgeous, actually, with this nineties grunge look that I immediately love.

She glances at Jamie. “You again.”

He makes a noise in his throat that sounds like a stifled laugh. The bartender nods hello at me and Hazel. “Sit wherever.”

My gaze lands on a poster for The Who’sQuadropheniaalbum. “Hazel!” I point at it. “Look.”

Hazel smiles at it. “Cool.”

“You likeQuadrophenia?” the bartender asks.

We slip onto bar stools. “It’s our dad’s favorite album,” I explain. “We grew up on that record.”

She offers us a small, pleased smile. “Good taste.” A beat. “I’m Jordan.”

“Pippa.” I like her immediately. “That’s Hazel. And Jamie.”

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