Page 43 of Behind the Net

My mind is on my pretty assistant, sitting in her tiny sleep top and shorts, smooth legs tucked beneath her as she played the guitar in the middle of the night, looking like an angel sent from heaven.

Or maybe she was sent from the devil, because Pippa is tempting as hell.

Gorgeous, even back then.

Something pleased floods my chest. She remembers me, and she thinks I’m hot.

I’ve been thinking about her since I woke up this morning. Throughout practice, my mind was on her singing. In the shower, I pictured her with me, naked and wet and smiling up at me with sparkling eyes. When I picked lunch up from the Filthy Flamingo, I remembered how her eyes danced, taking in the string lights across the ceiling.

After she played guitar for me, I wanted to kiss her so fucking badly. The way her nipples pinched under her top has been tormenting me for days. I can’t remember the last time I was so attracted to a woman.

I am so fucked.

I catch myself—I’m not fucked. I’m fine. I’ve trained with the best sports psychologists in the world, and I know how to block out distractions. Pippa isn’t an option. She’s not part of the plan, and there’s no room to slip, because if Pippa and I start messing around, I have an ugly feeling that we won’t be able to stop.

One of the sports psychologists in New York liked to appeal to my competitive nature.Challenge yourself, she’d say. Keeping my distance from Pippa—my high school crush, the girl I can’t seem to say no to—is proving to be a challenge. Nothing I can’t handle, though.

I remember the smile that grew on her face as she kept playing and singing, like she was proud and surprised. My heart twists and I rub my sternum over my hockey pads. Fucking hell, she was so beautiful, and knowing she was afraid to do it made me so proud.

I hope she knows she isn’t broken. I hope she realizes what she’s capable of.

She’s here again tonight with my mom. Sparks pop in my chest at the idea of Pippa watching my game. Maybe biting her plush bottom lip in tense moments.

“Streicher.”

My head snaps up. Ward and everyone else in the change room are staring at me.

“You okay?” Ward tilts his chin at where I’m rubbing my sternum.

I let my hand drop. “Yeah.” I nod. “Fine.”

On the way to the ice, he pulls me aside.

“Is tonight going to be a problem?” he asks as the other players shuffle past. Music pumps in the arena as players hit the ice to warm up.

Shit. My distraction with Pippa is written all over my face.Get it together, Streicher. I shake my head. “Nope.”

Ward studies my face. “Don’t let Miller get in your head.” He glances around, waiting until the equipment manager steps out of the hall. “I know you guys have history.”

My thoughts screech to a halt. Rory Miller was traded to Calgary recently. I knew this and I completely forgot.

Thatis how bad this thing with Pippa is. I forgot that the guy I grew up with, who used to be my best friend until he turned into a total fucking asshole, is going to be on the ice tonight.

I frown at Ward. “How do you know about that?”

“It’s my job.”

Seven years into his career, Miller has a reputation for partying, girls, and being a fucking asshole on the ice. As he developed into an incredible right winger, his ego grew. Coaches keep him around because he scores goals, but he’s far from a fan favorite.

I hate playing against him. Calgary’s one of the closest teams to Vancouver, geographically, so we play them six times this season.

He has one of the best scoring averages in the league, and he’s going to be slapping pucks at me all night. This is the kind of thing I should have been thinking about all week, preparing and reviewing game tape.

“You’ve played with him,” Ward says. “You know his weaknesses?”

Miller’s the star. Always has been, since we were kids. He’s the most competitive person I’ve ever met. We never would have been friends if I wasn’t a goalie.

I think back to past games. He doesn’t listen to the coach’s plays. The starting line will think they’re running a certain play, and Miller will take it off the rails for the chance to score. And because he often succeeds, he gets away with it.

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