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She was so traumatized, she left a promising career. I did that.
A week later, I set a framed picture of me and Hazel on the bookshelf in my room. I was fine with moving into a room that was basically empty except for the bed and dresser, but over the past week, furniture kept arriving. I wasn’t even here when this bookshelf showed up—it just appeared, put together, this morning after I got home from Daisy’s walk. My stomach flutters. I know he put it together.
The last time I played was in front of Zach and his manager on the tour. I didn’t even want his manager there, but Zach pulled him in, and they listened while I played the skeleton of a song I’d been working on.
Even back in high school, I loved writing music. Deep down, I dreamed of having a career like Zach’s.
The worst part was that until that moment, I thought I had what it took to make music my career. I can sing, I can play guitar, and I can write music. I always wanted to write an album, even if just to see if I could.
“Andrew.” He says the word like it tastes bad. I meet his piercing gaze, blinking in confusion. “Yeah. He’s young. Probably my age. He’s a personal trainer.” Jamie’s gaze turns cold before he prowls to the door. “I’m coming with you.”
“I know. I trust you.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and his eyes almost look… amused? “I wouldn’t have asked you to move in if I didn’t trust you.” I make a dubious face. “You didn’t ask.” He coughs and looks away. Was that a laugh? It’s so hard to tell with him.
What’s your favorite food?” His eyebrow goes up. “That’s your question?” “I had zero warning you were going to want to talk today, or I would have prepared a list of questions.” My smile turns teasing. The corner of his mouth twitches again, and his eyes almost look soft. I like this look on him.
“Are you crazy about Christmas?” “Not really, but my mom loves it.” He looks over at Daisy, who has a stick in her mouth and is trying to bait another dog to chase her. “We spend most of the time cooking together and watching Christmas movies.” The way he says it makes me think that he just likes seeing her happy.
Every time I smile, his mouth twitches. That realization makes my stomach warm and liquid, and I smile wider at him.
“What about those cupcakes?” His gaze shoots to mine in confusion. “The container was empty. You gave them to your teammates, right?” He freezes, a guilty look crossing his handsome face, and my jaw drops. “Oh my god. You threw them out.” He shifts, glancing around the park. The guilty look intensifies. “Jamie.” I’m giving him an appalled look, and when I say his name, he turns and gives me his full attention. It’s intoxicating. “Did you dump those cupcakes in the garbage?” I cross my arms, but I can feel the smile twisting on my mouth. “They were terrible, weren’t they?”
The way he’s looking at me, amused and intense, it’s making my stomach flutter like crazy. Are we flirting right now? I can’t look away from him.
“You have a great voice,” he tells me again. “You know you do.” When my grade twelve music teacher said that to me, Zach made it seem like the teacher was being nice. Like the teacher felt sorry for me.
“I’m not performer material,” I tell him, echoing the words Zach said years ago. You don’t have it, he’d said. Oof. It’s still embarrassing that I even tried. Especially when my mind flicks to his new manic pixie dream girl.
“Your ex is a fucking loser to let you go,” he bites out.
besides taking care of Daisy and ordering groceries, he doesn’t ask for much. I make a mental note to buy more cupcake ingredients, though.
We’re a block from the apartment when something in the window of a music store catches my eye, and I stop short. Oh my god. The guitar of my dreams sits on display in the front window, gleaming. The photos in the guitar magazine I flipped through a couple months ago didn’t do it justice.
I wish I could see him smile. I picture it, and my stomach flutters. And there it is—a trill of notes in my head. I sit up in the dark bedroom. It’s just a few notes, but it’s that same feeling as before, when I’d sit with Zach on a couch with my guitar and we’d goof around. It’s a sparkling pressure in my chest, like fizzing bubbles. I place my hand over my sternum, smiling out the window, and I’m so relieved I could cry.
Zach didn’t break me. That girl I used to be is still in there. I just have to find a way to get her out.
“You took me to a dive bar?” I ask Ward as the door closes behind us. “Hey,” a woman snaps, holding a tray of drinks behind the bar. She’s in her late twenties, with long dark hair in a high ponytail. She’s wearing an old-looking band t-shirt and a scowl. “This isn’t a dive bar.” “It isn’t a dive bar, Streicher,” Ward says loud enough for her to hear. The bartender glares at him before carrying the drinks to a table. Ward leans in. “It’s a dive bar, but we don’t say that in front of Jordan. This place is her baby.”
Ward and Jordan 💗💗💗
Jamie’s in the net, blocking pucks that players shoot at him. He’s fast as lightning. I don’t even see the puck and he’s already caught it. Between drills, he gets on his knees and does these hip-thrusty moves to stretch. In my head, I hear seventies porn music and hide my smile behind my hand.
“Pippa, do me a favor, okay?” He jerks a nod at Jamie. “Make this guy come out with us after a game. Half the team is afraid of him because he doesn’t talk.” A laugh bursts out of me, and Jamie turns his glare to me.
Watching Jamie Streicher play a game is a totally different experience than sitting in on a practice. When he blocks the puck, the crowd around us cheers for him, although it doesn’t even seem like he notices or cares.
Just like in practice, he’s faster than I can follow, but now, there are five guys trying to sink the puck in while another five fight them off. Jamie’s body bends and contorts in the net in sharp motions, but he makes it look easy. It’s fast-paced, brutal, and charged with energy. I love it.
“He’ll be pissed off at that one.” Donna’s still fiddling with the beads. “He’s so hard on himself, but that’s how he got here.” She gestures at the ice. “Ever since he was a kid, he’s taken on all the responsibility. I worry about him.” A smile lifts on her mouth, and she glances at me. “I’m really glad he has you to help out. He takes on too much.”
Marketing isn’t my dream, but it’s my best option. I can hear my parents’ voices in my head. There’s nothing wrong with a stable job, Pippa!
I’ve already learned my lesson about pursuing my dream. My gaze flicks over to Jamie as he watches the puck at the other end of the ice. Some people are meant to pursue their dreams, but I’m not one of them.
“There’s coffee for you here.” My eyebrows snap together. Pippa does this—makes me coffee—and I don’t know how I feel about it. I’m not used to someone doing these things for me. A funny warmth spreads through my stomach, and I jerk a quick nod at her.
Letting Jamie come with me was a terrible idea. I can’t stop staring at him. He’s a flawless Olympian—my dad told me he played in the last Winter Olympics for Canada—and right now, I look like a sewer rat.
Hazel’s phone starts buzzing. “I have a ton of notifications,” she mutters, frowning at the screen. “Dude,” she says a moment later in a flat tone, scrolling through comments. She’s been tagged in one of the photos with Jamie that the other students posted. It’s going viral on social media because he almost never takes photos with people. An email pops up on her phone, and she reads it. “My class next week is full,” she says, sounding dazed. My jaw drops. “That’s incredible.” She shakes her head, reading on. “The whole month. My Saturday hot classes for the whole month are booked up. The
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“Oooooh.” I nod, smiling at him. “Okay. I see it now.” “What?” His expression is concerned. I just continue smiling at him. “You’re nice.” He looks at me like I’ve grown another head.
You take care of your mom, you took in a stray dog that needed a home, and you made me move in.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder in the direction we came from. “You bought us lunch. Jamie, you’re nice.” He beeps his key fob at the entrance of our building and opens the door for me, not meeting my gaze. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Play me a song.” I flinch. A heavy weight extinguishes my horniness as my thoughts freeze. “Any song,” he says, and my skin prickles at the low tone of his voice. The elevator door opens. “One of your favorites; I don’t care.”
He wants a song, but every time I think about picking up my guitar, my stomach churns with worry and hesitation. Yes, you can, he said, and he sounded so certain. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I can. I lean against the door, blowing out a long breath.
The fear in her eyes when I asked her to play a song for me made me sick. Her ex fucked with her head, and now she can’t do the thing she loves.
I want more for her. I don’t want her to live with this fear. I want her to crush it and feel proud. Pippa’s strong—I saw it when she helped my mom with her panic attack.
Is it appropriate for me to be standing in front of her in my underwear? Probably not. Do I care? I watch as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, tracing my abs with her gaze. No. No, I do not.
My mind wanders to a couple nights ago, after I got home from a game. When I turned on the TV, it was already on the sports channel. Was she watching my game? Pride bursts in my chest at the thought of it.
