Page 71 of Behind the Net

“I’ve been playing around with some stuff,” she admits with a funny, almost-embarrassed smile that makes me want to kiss her again. “It isn’t very good.”

The breath leaves my lungs in a huff. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Okay.” She smiles to herself and begins to play.

Her music fills the apartment, and a warm, tight pressure surges in my chest. The song she’s singing is hopeful, sweet, and fun. The lyrics are about getting back up on the horse after falling off. Pippa’s voice is soft but strong, and she has control over her notes like a professional. She makes it look easy and effortless.

As she sings about moving on from tough times, I wonder if I have anything to do with this, if the pep talk I gave her before the wrap party about getting back on the ice made any impact.

I really, really hope it did.

She sings a line about finding someone better, and an ugly thought strikes me. What if she’s thinking about moving on with someone else? I imagine her swiping on a dating app, and I feel sick. I picture guys knocking on our front door to pick her up, and my jaw hurts from clenching.

The tune ends, and she shoots me an embarrassed smile. “Not a lot of cleaning happening over there,” she teases.

I blink, shaking myself. “Did you write that?”

She nods. “I know it needs work.”

“Why do you do that?” I ask without thinking. “Cut yourself down like that.”

Discomfort flashes across her face, and she shifts her feet beneath her legs. “Um.” Her lashes flutter. “I guess I say it first so others won’t.” She looks over at me, and I definitely want to kiss her again, even just to distract her from the assholes who made her feel like she wasn’t good enough.

“I’d never do that, songbird.”

She holds my gaze before she gives me a small nod. “I know.”

I’m so fucking gone for this girl.

“How can anyone ever say yes to you if you say no to yourself first?” I ask. She chews her lip, watching me, and instead of pushing the issue, I just twirl my finger in the air. “Next.”

She laughs, and the tension dissipates. “Demanding.”

As I clean up, Pippa continues to play. Daisy snoozes on the couch, and when the timer rings, I dish out and gesture for Pippa to sit down at the table I’ve set.

The air hums with excitement. This feels like a date. No. Not a date. This feels like… something more. Something natural, easy, and necessary. Like we’re a couple or something. Daisy’s eating her dinner from the slow-feeder bowl I bought her, and Pippa watches with amusement as her tail wags.

This feels like family.

My stomach tightens. We’re not, and I know that. This is just me trying to smooth things over with her so I don’t lose someone I really need this year.

Pippa takes a bite and hums with appreciation. “Jamie, this is great.”

I smile at my plate. “Thanks. I used to make it for my mom when I was a kid.”

She quirks a funny smile at me, half-confused, half-amused. “You were cooking as a kid?”

I nod, gripping my water glass. The memories flood back—my mom’s dim room in the middle of the day, curtains closed, her under the covers, fast asleep. All she did was sleep for weeks at a time until she rose out of the funk she was in. That’s what she called them—funks.

“Okay,” Pippa says, leaving it be.

It’s her reaction that makes me want to share more. The way she gives me space tells me she’ll keep it between us. She’d never tell the media or her friends.

“My mom had depression when I was a kid. Sometimes I had to cook for myself.”

Her concerned gaze meets mine, but there’s no pity behind her eyes. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I managed it.”

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