Page 4 of Behind the Net

He was always an asshole, but god, he was so gorgeous, even then. Thick dark hair, always just a little messy from playing hockey. Sharp jawline, strong nose. Broad, strong shoulders, and tall.So tall. Unfairly dark lashes. He never hit that awkward teenager phase that seemed to span my entire teens. His silent, intimidating, grumpy thing both unnerved and fascinated me, along with every other girl and half the guys in school.

Oh god. I drag in a deep breath and enter the number on the keypad outside. He buzzes me up without answering. In the elevator, my stomach wobbles on the way to the penthouse.

I’m not that dorky band girl anymore. I’m a grown woman. It’s been eight years. I don’t have a teenage crush on the guy anymore.

I need this job. I’m broke and crashing on my sister’s couch. I quit my terrible job at Barry’s Hot Dog Hut with zero notice after a week. Even if I wanted to go back—which I don’t, I only took that job as an emergency way to pay bills and help Hazel out with rent—they’d never rehire me.

Besides, there’s no way he remembers me. Our high school was huge. I was the dorky music girl, always hanging with the band kids, and he was a hot hockey player. I’m two years younger, so we didn’t even have classes together or friends in common. He’s one of the best goalies in the NHL, with the looks of a freaking god. The fact that he’s known for not doing relationships seems to make people even more feral. Last year, someone threw panties on the ice for him—it was all over the sports highlights.

He isn’t going to remember me.

I watch the number climb higher as I approach his floor.

He’ll be busy with practices and training. I won’t see him.

And I really, really need this job. I’m done with the music industry and its famous assholes. I went to school for marketing, and it’s time to pursue that path. The only Vancouver job postings in marketing require at least five years’ experience, so I wouldn’t even be considered. According to my sister Hazel, who works as a physiotherapist for the Vancouver Storm, a marketing job with the team is opening up soon. They prefer internal hires, she said.

This assistant job is my way in. It’s temporary. If I prove myself in that job, that’s my foot in the door to the marketing job with the team.

The elevator opens on the top floor, and I walk to his door, taking a deep, calming breath. It doesn’t work, and my heart pounds against the front wall of my chest.

Need this job, I remind myself.

I knock, the door swings open, and my pulse stumbles like it’s drunk on cheap cider.

He’s so much hotter grown up. And in person? It’s actually unfair.

His frame fills the doorway. He’s a foot taller than me, and even under his long-sleeved workout shirt, his body is perfection. The thin fabric stretches over his broad shoulders. I’m vaguely aware of a dog barking and racing around the apartment behind him, but my gaze follows his movement as he props a hand on the doorframe. His sleeves are pushed up, and my gaze lingers on his forearm.

Jamie Streicher’s forearms could get a woman pregnant.

I’m staring. I jerk my gaze up to his face.

Ugh. My stomach sinks. That teen crush I had years ago bursts back into my life like a comet, thrilling through me. His eyes are still the deepest, richest green, like all the shades of an old-growth forest. My stomach tumbles.

“Hi,” I breathe before clearing my throat. My face burns. “Hi.” My voice is stronger this time, and I fake a bright smile. “I’m Pippa, your new assistant.” I smooth a hand over my ponytail.

There’s a beat where his features are blank before his eyes sharpen and his expression slides to a glower.

My thoughts scatter in the air like confetti. Words? I don’t know them. Couldn’t even tell you one. His hair is thick, short, and curling a little. Damp, like he just got out of the shower, and I want to run my fingers through it.

His gaze lingers on me, turning more hostile by the second, before he sighs like I’m inconveniencing him. This is how he seemed in high school—surly, irritated, grouchy. Not that we ever interacted.

“Great.” He says the word like a curse, like I’m the last person he wants to see. He turns and walks into the apartment.

I knew he wouldn’t remember me.

I hold back a humorless laugh of embarrassment and disbelief. I don’t know why I’m surprised by his attitude. If I’ve learned one thing from my ex, Zach, and his crew, it’s that gorgeous, famous people are allowed to be complete assholes. The world lets them get away with it.

Jamie Streicher is no different.

I take the open door as a sign to follow him. The dog sprints to my feet and jumps on me. She’s wearing a pink collar, and I love her immediately.

“Down,” he commands in a stern voice that makes the back of my neck prickle. The dog ignores him, hopping onto my legs and wagging her tail hard.

“Hi, doggy.” I crouch down and laugh as she tries to give me kisses.

She’s full of goofy, wild energy, doing these little tippy-taps with her paws on the floor as her tail wags so hard it might fall off. Her butt wiggles in the cutest way as I scratch the spot above her tail.

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