Page 63 of Behind the Net

I huff, leaning my chin on my palm, scrolling back up to the photo of her. The beer is making my head float, and I wonder if she’d say that in bed.

My mind floods with images of us together—naked, breathing hard. Maybe I have her wrists pinned down as I push into her, watching her eyes go hazy.

My cock stiffens and I clench my eyes closed, rubbing my face. Christ, Streicher. Get your shit together.

Pippa’s problem with orgasms has nagged at me all week.

I stare at my text conversation with her, wanting to say so many things.How are youandhave you been thinking about me tooandI know a hundred ways to make you come.

How are things at the apartment this week?I finally settle on because it’s less personal.

Quiet, she responds.Daisy misses you.

My pulse picks up. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at my screen.

I’ll be home before she knows it, I text back.

Pippa’s response comes right away.She’s looking forward to it.

My mouth curves up.

“Holy shit,” Owens says down the table, pointing at me. “He smiles.”

I shake my head at him, and I think I’m still smiling. “Fuck off, Owens,” I call down to him, but there’s no bite to my words. He just grins back at me.

Tell me about the hikes you’ve done this week, I text Pippa.

You want a detailed schedule?

Yes. Down to the hour.

Demanding.

I smirk at my phone, knee bouncing as my blood crackles with energy.

Half an hour later, we’re still texting, messages flying back and forth. I’ve lost count of how many beers I’ve had. I don’t drink much—my mom was always worried I’d inherit my dad’s alcoholism—but I tell myself that drinking with the team is part of the team bonding thing Ward likes. I’m in that buoyant buzzed zone where everything seems more fun.

Thank you again for coming with me to the wrap party, she says.

I left for my away games the morning after the party, so we haven’t had a chance to talk about it.

No problem.

I want to apologize for what we talked about.

My gut tenses.Explain.

The response doesn’t come right away, and I can sense her chewing her lip on the other side of the continent.The stuff that I talked about with Zach and me… it was unprofessional.

I rub the ache behind my sternum, picturing her brow wrinkling with worry. Does she regret telling me?I forced you to tell me.

Still. It’s not your problem and I’m embarrassed.

I don’t know what this feeling is in my chest. It’s a blend of wanting to give her a hug that lasts for hours and the fierce need to prove her wrong about this “problem” she thinks she has.

Nothing to be embarrassed about, songbird.I hit send before I can think twice about calling her that. I really shouldn’t, if we’re talking about being professional. I can’t seem to stop, though.

Okay, well…she replies.Thanks for listening.

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