Page 62 of Behind the Net

Unease simmers in my gut as I drink my beer. Whenever the whistle blew during the game tonight, I had the urge to look over my shoulder. I couldn’t stop picturing her sitting there, smiling and watching me play. I’ve been away for six days, and it’s time to face an ugly truth.

I miss the songbird.

The server places another beer in front of me and I slug back the rest of my drink before handing her the empty glass and thanking her.

“You’re in a mood tonight,” Owens notes, cocking a grin.

I stare at him.

“How’s your girl doing?”

My girl. The words warm my chest. “She’s my assistant,” I say, but it doesn’t sound convincing.

“Yeah.” He smirks. “That’s what I meant.”

I drink half my beer. “She’s none of your fucking business.”

He lets out a loud laugh, head tipping back. “Streicher, relax. I’m not going after Pippa.”

My shoulder muscles ease and I take another pull of my beer.

I think back to the conversation Pippa and I had in the car, where I told her not to bring guys home. So fucking stupid. Could I have been more obvious? She probably thinks I’m a toxic asshole.

And then there was the wrap party. Kissing her, touching her, pulling her into my lap. I’ve been replaying that night all week.

“You’re probably going to bite my head off for saying this,” Owens starts.

“So don’t say it.”

He grins. “Nah. I’m going to say it anyway. You play better when Pippa’s at the game.”

I fold my arms over my chest. I can feel my nostrils flaring. There’s a weird pressure in my chest.

“That’s because when she goes to my games, my mom is there,” I tell him in a sharp tone. “I worry about my mom.”

He shakes his head, eyes glittering. “I don’t think that’s it.”

“You’re drunk.”

He laughs again. “Yeah, I am, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

I roll my eyes. These fucking rookies think they know everything. Down the table, Alexei Volkov calls him over, and when Owens gets up and leaves, I picture Pippa sitting behind the net. My nerves immediately settle.

Fuck.

I rub the bridge of my nose. I’m not ready to look this problem in the eye. It’s cowardly of me, and it goes against everything I’ve learned about grit and mental toughness from my sport, but…

I can’t do this for real with Pippa. I can’t mess it up and then be in the same category as Zach, the fuckface loser. After hearing her play guitar and sing for me, I know she has what it takes to have a career in music.

She just doesn’t realize it yet.

In my back pocket, my phone buzzes. It’s a picture of Pippa and Daisy on a hike this afternoon. The sun peeks through the trees, and Pippa’s eyes are so bright. Two pink patches bloom on her cheeks from the cold. My heart squeezes. I study them, tracing the lines of her face and her caramel hair with my gaze. She’s wearing a light jacket, and I frown.

Dress warmer, I text. It gets cold in the mountains.

My full focus is on my phone, watching as the typing dots appear. A twist of excitement hits my chest, like the moments before a player tries to score on my net.

Bossy, she texts back.

---