He’s the hot hockey player she had a crush on in high school . . . and she’s his new live-in assistant. In this tension-filled hockey romance from the viral TikTok author of The Fake Out and The Wingman, she must take a risk in love—or leave him out on the ice. Aspiring musician Pippa Hartley’s done with heartbreak. Her new gig? Personal assistant to Jamie Streicher, the surly hockey player she had a crush on in high school. The job is supposed to be a breeze, but nothing about the intimidatingly hot Jamie is easy. He’s grouchy, he’s demanding, and he doesn’t even remember her. Keeping things professional will be no problem. Beneath his surliness, though, Jamie is surprisingly sweet and protective. He pretends to be her boyfriend to make her ex jealous. He encourages her in music and tells her she’s beautiful. He buys her expensive gifts that make her feel seen. And when he learns her ex was bad in bed, Jamie’s competitive nature flares. Turns out, Jamie remembers exactly who Pippa is, and that high school crush she had? The feeling was mutual. Falling for Jamie can only lead to heartbreak . . . but it might be worth it. Don't miss any of Stephanie Archer’s steamy Vancouver Storm series: BEHIND THE NET • THE FAKE OUT • THE WINGMAN Stephanie Archer writes spicy romantic comedies with sharp banter, lots of laughs, and guaranteed HEAs. She believes in the power of best friends, stubborn women, a fresh haircut, and love. She lives in Vancouver with a man, a dog, and a baby. CHAPTER 1 JAMIE 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 selfinflicted 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 "rst 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 f***ed up on last year. This is where he’ll tell us that losing is not an option. And don’t I f***ing 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