Behind the Net

"Wait." My eyebrows snap together, and I tilt my head, replaying it. "I didn't tell you Zach and I went to high school together."

Jamie's eyes widen a fraction, and my lips part in surprise. Is it possible that he remembers me from high school? No. No way.

A guilty look passes over his face, and my jaw drops. "Jamie." My tone is accusing, and I wear a curious smile. "Fuck," he mutters to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. His expression is sheepish, and it's adorable. "You probably don't remember, but we went to the same high school."

A laugh bursts out of me. Don't remember him? How could anyone not?

"I remember you," I admit. "Of course I remember you."

His expression stills. "You do?" I can't help but roll my eyes. "Jamie. Come on. You were on your way to the NHL. You were one of the popular kids. All the girls swooned over you. You were gorgeous, even back then-"

His eyebrow goes up, and there's that look again. Teasing, focused, and determined. "You think I'm gorgeous?" Sparks dance up my throat, and I swallow. I'm blushing. "Uh," I say stupidly. The corner of his mouth twitches. "You said even back then. That means you thought I was gorgeous then, and you think I'm gorgeous now."

"I have feelings for you, songbird." My heart pounds, and the rest of the bar falls away. "I like you so fucking much. I don't want to pretend I don't anymore. I flew out here for you." Something expands in my chest, filling every corner with an intense warmth. Our gazes are locked, and my arms are still around her, keeping her close. "I don't want to fight this anymore."

Her eyes are bright and full of vulnerability. "Me neither." "Really?"

She nods, laughing lightly like she's relieved.

"Wait," she says, handing me the cupcakes. "Take these with you. You can give them to the team or whatever."

I give her a strange look. If I show up with cupcakes, I'll never hear the end of it. Nevertheless, I take them. I can't see that look of disappointment on her face again.

On the street outside, I open the container and shove one into my mouth. My eyes roll back in my head as the sugar hits my tongue, and I nearly moan in ecstasy. It's the best fucking thing I've ever tasted.

I pull the navy and white jersey out of the box, turning it to read the back. STREICHER is stitched in bold white lettering, and my body hums with something pleased, proud, and possessive. "You don't have to wear my name on your back," he says quietly, watching me carefully. "We can take that part off."

"Don't you dare." I hold his gaze as my insides melt into a puddle. "I want to wear your name."

"Okay." The corners of his mouth hitch, and his eyes warm. "I want you to, too."