THE LEFT WINGER skates toward the net and slapshots the puck

at me. There’s a thwap of the puck in my glove, and my blood flares

with competition and satisfaction.

“Streicher shut out,” my new teammate calls as he breezes past,

and I toss the puck onto the ice with a quick nod. The fans back in

New York used to chant that during games. When I won the Vezina

Trophy last year, awarded to the best goalie in the NHL, they

referenced it in the speech about my performance.

Near the bench, the coaches watch, make notes, and discuss the

team’s performance. A puck gets past me and my gut tightens. The

head coach’s gaze flicks to me, expression indiscernible.

Two weeks ago, I signed as a free agent below my value so that I

could play for the Vancouver Storm. After the panic attack that

caused her car accident, my mom insisted she was fine, but I know

that if she kept them from me, it must be getting worse. Now that the

team has signed me for a lower price, I’m an asset. They could trade

me for more money and I wouldn’t have any say in the matter. I’m

like a house they just got a deal on, and if they decide to buy

something better, they’ll sell me.

Worry flows through me. My mom’s dealt with depression and

anxiety for years, ever since my dad passed in a self-inflicted drunk

driving incident when I was a baby, but while I wasn’t looking, it

turned into something so much worse.

Leaving Vancouver isn’t an option, and I’m not giving up the sport

I love, so this season needs to go well. I need to play my best and

maintain my top status so they don’t trade me. This year, I need to

focus.

The players run drills as practice continues, and I reference what

I know about them from previous games. I’ve played against the

Vancouver Storm in the past, and I recognize their faces, but I don’t

know these guys like my old team. I played for New York for seven

years, since I was nineteen. I don’t know these coaches, and this city

hasn’t felt like home since I left for the juniors, but Vancouver is

where I need to be right now.

Something strains in my chest. It’s only the first day of training

camp, but I’ve never felt more pressure to play my best.

The whistle blows, and I skate toward the bench with the other

players.

“Looking sharp out there, boys,” the coach says as we gather

around the bench.

At the end of last season, one of the worst in the Storm’s history,

Tate Ward made headlines after he was announced as the new head

coach. The guy’s in his late thirties, not much older than some of

Vancouver’s players, and he had a promising career as a forward in

the league until a knee injury ended it. He coached college hockey

until last year, and from what I’ve read in hockey news, the fans are

skeptical. Head coaches are normally older, with more experience

coaching at the pro level.

Ward glances at me, and under my goalie mask, my jaw tightens.

“We have a lot of work to do over the next few seasons,” he says,

surveying the group of players. “We finished last year near the

bottom of the league.”

The air feels heavy as players shift on their skates, bracing

themselves. This is the part where a lot of coaches would point out

players’ flaws and weaknesses. What the team fucked up on last

year. This is where he’ll tell us that losing is not an option.

And don’t I fucking know it.

“Nowhere to go but up,” Ward says instead, crooking a grin at us.

“Hit the showers and rest up. See you tomorrow.”

The players head off the ice, and I pull my mask off with a frown.

I’m sure this pleasant, supportive facade of Ward’s will end as soon

as the season starts in a few weeks and the pressure becomes real.

“Streicher,” Ward calls as I head down the hall to the dressing

room. He heads over to me and waits as the remaining players

shuffle down the hall, giving them nods of acknowledgment. “How

are you settling in?”

I nod. “Fine.” My apartment is filled with boxes that I don’t have

time to unpack. “Thank you, uh, for setting up the apartment. And the

movers.”

Tension gathers in my shoulder muscles and I drag a hand

through my hair. I hate accepting help from others.

Ward waves me off. “It’s our job to help players settle in. A lot of

players ask for an assistant, actually. They can help you unpack, get

you set up with meals, get your car serviced, walk your dog,

whatever.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

He chuckles. “You know what I mean. We’re here to provide you

with whatever you need so you can focus on the ice. Anything you

need, just let us know.”

I don’t need help focusing on the ice. I’ve refined my life down to

the two things that matter—hockey and my mom.

“You bet,” I say, knowing full well I’m not going to ask for

anything.

I’ve always been the guy who takes care of himself. That’s not

about to change.

Ward lowers his voice. “If your mom needs any help, we can

provide that, too.”

When I requested a trade to Vancouver, he was the one who

called me to ask why. I told him everything. He’s the only one who

knows about my mom.

Anxiety spikes in me, and this is why I shouldn’t have opened my

fucking mouth. Now people want to get involved. Every instinct in my

body revolts, and my shoulders hitch.

My schedule this year will be grueling. Eighty-two games, half at

home in Vancouver and half away, with team practices, training with

the goalie coach, and my own workouts. On top of that, I’ll have

sessions with my physio, massage therapist, sports psychologist,

and personal trainer.

Something flares in my chest, a mix of competition and

anticipation. I’ve been competing at hockey since I was five years

old, and I thrive on a challenge. Pressure fuels me. Years of training

have made me into a person who loves to push my limits and win.

This year? Between how stubborn my mom is and how intense

my schedule will be? It’s going to be a fucking challenge.

Nothing I can’t handle, though, as long as I stay focused.

“We’re good.” My words are clipped. “Thank you.”

It’s always just been me and my mom. I’ve got it handled. I

always have.

After I shower and change, I leave the arena to grab lunch and head

home for a nap before hitting the gym. I’m walking through an alley

from the arena to the street when a noise by the dumpsters stops

me.

A fluffy brown dog’s butt is sticking out of a box. As I walk past,

the dog lifts its head out of the box and looks at me. There’s

macaroni and cheese all over its snout.

The dog wags its tail at me, and I stare back. Her eyes are a

deep brown, bright with excitement. Her breed is hard to tell. She’s

forty or fifty pounds, maybe a mix between a Lab and a spaniel. One

of her ears is shorter than the other.

The dog takes a step forward, and I take a step back.

“No way,” I tell it.

The dog flops to the ground, rolls over to expose her belly, and

waits, tail sweeping back and forth over the pavement as she asks

for belly rubs.

Where’s her owner? I glance up and down the alley, but we’re

alone. My nose wrinkles as I study her. No collar, and among the

macaroni, her snout is dirty and greasy. Her fur is too long, falling

into her eyes, and even though she needs a haircut, I can see how

skinny she is.

There’s a twisting feeling in my chest that I don’t like.

“Don’t eat that,” I tell her, frowning as I nod at the garbage. “You’ll

get sick.”

Her pink tongue flops out the side of her mouth.

“Go home.”

My words come out stern, but she’s still waiting for belly rubs.

My heart strains, but I shove the feelings away. No. This isn’t my

problem. I don’t do distractions. I don’t even date, for fuck’s sake,

because I know from experience that people want more than I can

give them.

I can’t leave her here, though. She could get hit by a car or

injured by a coyote. She could eat something that could make her

sick.

The SPCA will take her. I pull my phone out and, after some

Googling, call the nearest location.

“There’s a dog behind the arena downtown,” I tell the woman

when she answers. There’s only one arena in downtown Vancouver,

so she’ll know where I mean. There are dogs barking in the

background on her end. “Can someone come pick her up?”

The woman laughs. “Honey, we are so understaffed. You’ll have

to drop her off at one of our locations.”

She lists the locations that are accepting dogs before hanging up.

The ones nearby are all full, so I’ll have to drive a couple hours

outside the city to drop her off. I stare at the phone, brow furrowed,

before I look down at the dog.

She jumps to her feet, still staring at me, wagging her tail. It’s like

she thinks I’m going to give her a treat or something. There’s an

annoying pull in my chest.

“What?” I ask the dog, and her tail wags harder. Something in my

chest warms, and I swallow past a thick throat.

I can’t just leave her here.

In the back of my brain, the rigorous, disciplined part of me

scoffs. What about my insane schedule? I can’t handle a fucking

dog. I can’t even handle having a girlfriend without fucking

everything up. I sure as shit can’t take care of a dog. I’m traveling

half the season.

But I can’t just leave her here.

Her tail is wagging again, and she’s looking up at me with those

brown eyes. I’ll take her to a shelter, but I’m not going to keep her.

That evening, I’m sitting in my car outside the shelter, surveying the

small but well-maintained building. I can hear barking from inside.

There’s a fenced-in field beside the building with dog toys and some

plastic equipment, like at a playground.

In the passenger seat, the dog stares out the window, curious. I

roll down the window and let her sniff.

After scouring lost dog ads online, I found a highly rated farm that

takes in strays and places them with new owners. They vet their

owners carefully, and the dogs are well taken care of.

This is the best shelter I could find. I drove three hours to get

here.

My gaze sweeps over the place, and I swallow past the knot in

my throat. I picture leaving her here, and a weight forms in my gut.

The dog looks at me and pants, her tongue hanging out.

“I can’t keep you,” I tell her.

She stands up and tries to climb into my lap, and I sigh. She kept

trying to do this while I was driving. She crawls into my lap and rests

her head on the armrest.

Fuck. If I knew how hard this would be, I wouldn’t have taken her

to begin with.

That’s a lie. No way was I leaving her in some dirty alley.

I run through the reasons I can’t keep her. I’ve never even had a

dog. I have no idea how to take care of one. My mom is dealing with

some serious mental health struggles and needs me, whether she

can admit it or not. I need to focus on hockey. After my ex, Erin, and

I broke up when we were nineteen, I don’t do commitments. This dog

is a major commitment, and I would need to work my demanding

schedule around her.

And yet, hesitation rises in me. I study the building, looking for

flaws. There are a few weeds in the garden. The outside trim needs

new paint. In the field, there are a couple holes that dogs have

probably dug. I can’t handle a dog, but I can’t leave her here.

This place isn’t good enough for her.

I rub the bridge of my nose, knowing my mind is already made

up. Fuck.

“Hey.”

Her head pops up and she looks up at me, bright-eyed. My heart

tugs.

“You want to live with me?” I ask her, and she continues to stare

at me with that cute look. “Oh. You want a treat.”

She wiggles up and jumps off my lap into the passenger seat,

waiting. I reach over to the back seat and open the bag of treats I

bought for her, giving her a few, watching as she crunches them up.

My mind is made up, and I ignore the little voice in my head

telling me this isn’t a good idea. I watch as the dog curls into a ball in

the passenger seat and goes to sleep. I have the money to bring an

assistant on this year, and the dog will be well cared for.

On my phone, I scroll through my contacts until I find who I’m

looking for.

“Streicher,” Ward answers.

“Hi.” I rub my jaw as that bad feeling snakes through my gut

again. “I changed my mind. I’m going to need an assistant.”

MY HEART HAMMERS while I stand outside Jamie Streicher’s

apartment building.

The last time I saw him in person, I had just spilled a blue

Slurpee all over my white t-shirt in the high school cafeteria. His cold

look of disinterest replays in my head, his green eyes flicking over

me before turning back to his conversation with the rest of the hot,

popular jocks.

Now I’m going to be his assistant.

He was always an asshole, but god, he was so gorgeous, even

then. Thick dark hair, always just a little messy from playing hockey.

Sharp jawline, strong nose. Broad, strong shoulders, and tall. So tall.

Unfairly dark lashes. He never hit that awkward teenager phase that

seemed to span my entire teens. His silent, intimidating, grumpy

thing both unnerved and fascinated me, along with every other girl

and half the guys in school.

Oh god. I drag in a deep breath and enter the number on the

keypad outside. He buzzes me up without answering. In the elevator,

my stomach wobbles on the way to the penthouse.

I’m not that dorky band girl anymore. I’m a grown woman. It’s

been eight years. I don’t have a teenage crush on the guy anymore.

I need this job. I’m broke and crashing on my sister’s couch. I quit

my terrible job at Barry’s Hot Dog Hut with zero notice after a week.

Even if I wanted to go back—which I don’t, I only took that job as an

emergency way to pay bills and help Hazel out with rent—they’d

never rehire me.

Besides, there’s no way he remembers me. Our high school was

huge. I was the dorky music girl, always hanging with the band kids,

and he was a hot hockey player. I’m two years younger, so we didn’t

even have classes together or friends in common. He’s one of the

best goalies in the NHL, with the looks of a freaking god. The fact

that he’s known for not doing relationships seems to make people

even more feral. Last year, someone threw panties on the ice for him

—it was all over the sports highlights.

He isn’t going to remember me.

I watch the number climb higher as I approach his floor.

He’ll be busy with practices and training. I won’t see him.

And I really, really need this job. I’m done with the music industry

and its famous assholes. I went to school for marketing, and it’s time

to pursue that path. The only Vancouver job postings in marketing

require at least five years’ experience, so I wouldn’t even be

considered. According to my sister Hazel, who works as a

physiotherapist for the Vancouver Storm, a marketing job with the

team is opening up soon. They prefer internal hires, she said.

This assistant job is my way in. It’s temporary. If I prove myself in

that job, that’s my foot in the door to the marketing job with the team.

The elevator opens on the top floor, and I walk to his door, taking

a deep, calming breath. It doesn’t work, and my heart pounds

against the front wall of my chest.

Need this job, I remind myself.

I knock, the door swings open, and my pulse stumbles like it’s

drunk on cheap cider.

He’s so much hotter grown up. And in person? It’s actually unfair.

His frame fills the doorway. He’s a foot taller than me, and even

under his long-sleeved workout shirt, his body is perfection. The thin

fabric stretches over his broad shoulders. I’m vaguely aware of a dog

barking and racing around the apartment behind him, but my gaze

follows his movement as he props a hand on the doorframe. His

sleeves are pushed up, and my gaze lingers on his forearm.

Jamie Streicher’s forearms could get a woman pregnant.

I’m staring. I jerk my gaze up to his face.

Ugh. My stomach sinks. That teen crush I had years ago bursts

back into my life like a comet, thrilling through me. His eyes are still

the deepest, richest green, like all the shades of an old-growth

forest. My stomach tumbles.

“Hi,” I breathe before clearing my throat. My face burns. “Hi.” My

voice is stronger this time, and I fake a bright smile. “I’m Pippa, your

new assistant.” I smooth a hand over my ponytail.

There’s a beat where his features are blank before his eyes

sharpen and his expression slides to a glower.

My thoughts scatter in the air like confetti. Words? I don’t know

them. Couldn’t even tell you one. His hair is thick, short, and curling

a little. Damp, like he just got out of the shower, and I want to run my

fingers through it.

His gaze lingers on me, turning more hostile by the second,

before he sighs like I’m inconveniencing him. This is how he seemed

in high school—surly, irritated, grouchy. Not that we ever interacted.

“Great.” He says the word like a curse, like I’m the last person he

wants to see. He turns and walks into the apartment.

I knew he wouldn’t remember me.

I hold back a humorless laugh of embarrassment and disbelief. I

don’t know why I’m surprised by his attitude. If I’ve learned one thing

from my ex, Zach, and his crew, it’s that gorgeous, famous people

are allowed to be complete assholes. The world lets them get away

with it.

Jamie Streicher is no different.

I take the open door as a sign to follow him. The dog sprints to

my feet and jumps on me. She’s wearing a pink collar, and I love her

immediately.

“Down,” he commands in a stern voice that makes the back of my

neck prickle. The dog ignores him, hopping onto my legs and

wagging her tail hard.

“Hi, doggy.” I crouch down and laugh as she tries to give me

kisses.

She’s full of goofy, wild energy, doing these little tippy-taps with

her paws on the floor as her tail wags so hard it might fall off. Her

butt wiggles in the cutest way as I scratch the spot above her tail.

I’m in love.

Jamie clears his throat with disapproval. Embarrassment flickers

in my chest but I shove it away. I’m here to help him with his dog;

what’s his problem? When I straighten up, my face feels warm.

Also, his apartment? It’s one of the nicest places I’ve ever been

inside. It’s one of the nicest places I’ve ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling

windows span two stories and overlook the water and North Shore

Mountains, filling the open-concept living room and kitchen with light.

The kitchen is sparkling and spacious, and even though the living

room is cluttered with moving boxes and dog toys, the enormous

sectional sofa looks so comfy and welcoming. There are stairs,

which I assume lead to the bedrooms. Through the windows, I can

see North Vancouver and the mountains. Even on a stormy day in

the worst of the rainy, bleak Vancouver winter, the view will be

spectacular.

I bet this place has a huge bathtub.

“What’s her name?” I ask Jamie as I pet the dog. She’s leaning

against me, clearly loving all this attention.

His jaw ticks and the way he stares at me makes my stomach

dip. His green eyes are so sharp and piercing, and I wonder if this

guy has ever smiled. “I don’t know.”

On the floor near the couch, there’s a giant fluffy dog bed, and

about a hundred colorful toys are scattered throughout the living

room. A water bowl and empty food bowl sit on the floor in the

kitchen, and on the counter, there’s a giant bag of treats, half-empty.

The dog runs over to one of the toys before bringing it to Jamie’s feet

and looking up at him, wagging her tail.

“I have to go to the arena, so let’s get this over with,” Jamie says,

like I’m wasting his time. He stalks past me, and as he passes, his

scent whooshes up my nose.

My eyes practically cross. He smells incredible. It’s that un-pindownable

scent of men’s deodorant—sharp, spicy, bold, fresh, and

clean, all at the same time. The scent is probably called Avalanche

or Hurricane or something powerful and unstoppable. I want to put

my face in his shirt and huff. I’d probably pass out.

As he moves around the kitchen, showing me where the dog’s

food is, I’m struck by the way he moves with power and grace. His

back muscles ripple under his shirt. His shoulders are so broad. He’s

so, so freaking tall.

I realize he still hasn’t even introduced himself. This is something

famous people did on Zach’s tour when they came backstage, like

they expect you to know who they are.

“All our communication will be through email or text,” Jamie says.

“Walk the dog, feed the dog, keep her out of trouble. I’ve already

taken her to the vet and for grooming.” He glances at her again.

I offer him a reassuring smile. “I can handle all of that.”

“Good.” His tone is sharp.

Wow. Mr. Personality, right here. I swallow with difficulty. He’s so

bossy. A shiver rolls over me, and my skin tingles. I bet he’s bossy in

bed, too.

“Because it’s your job,” he adds.

A sick feeling moves up my throat but I shove it down. I’m not

sixteen anymore. I know better, and I know his type. After Zach, I

know not to fall for guys like this—famous guys. Guys with an ego.

Guys who think they can do whatever they want without

consequences.

Guys who will just get tired of me and cast me aside.

“On game days, I have a nap after lunch,” he says over his

shoulder as I follow him upstairs. “I need total silence.”

It takes all of my willpower not to salute him and say, sir, yes, sir!

Something tells me he wouldn’t laugh. “I’ll take her out on a long

walk during that time.”

He grunts. That’s probably his version of crying tears of joy.

In the upstairs hallway, he stops at an open doorway. The room is

empty except for a handful of large boxes and a mattress wrapped in

plastic.

“This will be my room?” I ask.

He frowns, and my stomach squirms.

“I mean, this will be the room where I sleep when you’re away?” I

clarify so he doesn’t think I’m trying to move in full time or something.

“When I’m taking care of the dog.”

He folds his arms. “Yes.”

The way he stares at me, it’s making my stomach do tippy-taps

like the dog’s paws on the floor. My nervous reaction is to smile

again, and his frown lines deepen.

“Great.” My voice is practically a chirp.

He tilts his chin to the bathroom down the hall. “You can use that

bathroom. I have my own en suite.”

His eyes linger on me, and I try not to shift under the weight of his

gaze. This guy does not like me, but I’m going to turn that around

once he realizes how much easier I can make his life. Besides, he’ll

never even see me.

Losing this job is not an option.

PIPPA HARTLEY IS STANDING in my living room, playing with the

dog, and I can’t breathe. When I opened the door, I thought I was

hallucinating.

Her hair is longer. Same shy smile, same sparkling blue-gray

eyes that make me forget my own name. Same soft, musical voice

that I’d strain to hear back in high school while she was talking and

laughing with the other band kids.

Grown up, though, she’s fucking gorgeous. A knockout. Freckles

over her nose and cheekbones from the summer sun and strands of

gold in her caramel hair that’s neither brown nor blond. Although her

braces were cute back in high school, her smile today nearly

stopped my heart.

I’m Pippa, she said at the door, like she didn’t remember me. I

don’t know why that made me so disappointed.

“Do you want me to help you unpack?” she asks, playing tug-ofwar

with the dog. “Or I can get groceries or meal prep for you.”

I watch the pretty curve of her mouth as she speaks. Her lips are

soft-looking, the perfect shade of pink. They always have been.

Fuck.

“No.” The word comes out harsher than I mean, but I’m rattled.

I can’t fucking think around Pippa Hartley. It’s always been like

this.

In an instant, my mind is back in that hallway outside the school

music room, listening as she sang. She had the most beautiful,

captivating, spellbinding voice I’d ever heard—sweet, but when she

hit certain notes, raspy. Strong, but at certain parts, soft. Always

controlled. Pippa knew exactly how to use her voice. She never sang

in public, though. It was always that fucking Zach guy singing, and

she’d play guitar as his backup.

I wonder if she still sings.

I wonder if she’s still with him, and my nostrils flare. Over the

summer, I saw his stupid, punchable face on a billboard and nearly

drove off the highway. That guy is the opener on a tour? He could

barely play the guitar. His voice was average.

Not like Pippa. She’s talented.

Eight years later, I still think about that moment in the hallway all

the time. I don’t know why—it doesn’t matter.

The dog shakes the toy while Pippa holds on, and she laughs.

I need to get out of here.

“I have to go to practice.” I snatch my keys off the counter and

haul my bag over my shoulder.

“Bye,” she calls as I step through the door.

After practice that afternoon, I’m about to open the front door when a

noise in my apartment stops me with my hand on the door handle.

Singing. Fleetwood Mac plays inside my apartment. Over the

tune, her voice rings out, clear, bright, and melodic. She hits all the

notes, but there’s something special to the way she sings it.

Something uniquely Pippa.

I can’t move. If I go inside, she’ll stop singing.

Alarm rattles through me, because this is exactly what I shouldn’t

be doing. She was supposed to leave before I got home.

I can’t have Pippa around this year. It’s only been a few hours,

and she’s already gotten inside my head.

When I open the door, my new assistant is unpacking the kitchen

boxes, reaching up to set a glass on the shelf, leaning forward on the

counter, giving me a clear view of her incredible ass.

Irritation tightens in my chest. This is the last thing I need.

My gaze sweeps around the apartment. Most of the boxes are

unpacked. She’s set up my living room, and the photo of my mom

and me sits on the bookshelf. She’s arranged the living room

furniture differently than my apartment back in New York. The Eames

chair faces the windows, overlooking the city lights in North

Vancouver, across the water. The dog is sleeping on the couch,

curled up in a ball.

I fold my arms over my chest, feeling a mix of relief and

confusion. The apartment looks nice. It feels like a home. I was

dreading unpacking, but now it’s almost done.

I don’t even mind that the dog is on the furniture.

Her singing stops and she glances over her shoulder. “Oh, hi.”

She gasps and looks at her phone on the counter before her eyes

dart to mine. “Sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was.” She dusts her

hands off and walks to the door. “How was practice?” she asks while

pulling her sneakers on.

The sweet, curious way she asks makes my chest feel funny.

Warm and liquid. I don’t like it. I have the weird urge to tell her how

nervous I am about this season.

“Fine,” I say instead, and her eyes widen at my sharp tone. Fuck.

See? This is why this isn’t going to work. I care too much about what

she thinks.

“Daisy and I went for a two-hour walk around Stanley Park, and

then I spent most of the evening training her to do tricks.”

My eyebrows pull together. “Daisy?”

She shrugs, smiling over at the dog on the couch. “She needs a

name.” She picks her bag up. “I took her out an hour ago, so you

don’t need to.”

I try to say something like thanks, but it’s just a low noise of

acknowledgment in my throat.

She smooths a delicate hand over her ponytail, blinks twice, and

gives me that bright smile from before, the one I thought about

during my entire practice.

Her cheeks are going pink and she looks embarrassed. “I’ll get

out of your hair.” She loops the strap of her bag over her shoulder

and gives me another quick, shy smile. “I’ll be here tomorrow

morning after you leave for practice. Good night, Jamie.”

My gaze drops to her pretty lips, and I’m tongue-tied. She

probably thinks I’ve been hit in the head with the puck too many

times.

She leaves and I stand there, staring at the door.

Maybe I don’t have to—

I crush the thought, like slapping a mosquito off my arm. Pippa

has to go. I know from my mom and from the one relationship I

attempted in my first year in the NHL that if there are too many balls

in the air, I’m going to drop one. I always do.

The second she leaves, I pull my phone out and call Ward.

“Streicher,” he answers.

“Coach.” I rake my hand through my hair. “I need a new

assistant.”