Page 137 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I hate myself for lying, but what am I supposed to do? Spill my guts and admit the truth? That I’m not okay, that my thoughts are tangled in knots, that I don’t even know how to explain this overwhelming unease?

I have to figure this out before I self-sabotage.

Gio: Are you sure? You seem off.

Of course I seem off!

I’M PREGNANT!

I let out a shaky breath. How does he always know? It's like he has a sixth sense for when I'm not being completely honest. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I can’t type anything. What do I even say?

Instead, I toss the phone again and flop backward on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The faint smell of Dolly’s vanilla-scented perfume lingers in the air. I miss her already—her calm presence, her ability to make even the worst situations feel manageable.

Another buzz.

I groan and pick up my phone.

Gio: I can come over if you need me.

My chest tightens.

He would drop everything he’s doing to come to my place.

The idea of seeing him now—having to look him in the eye and pretend everything is hunky-dory feels unbearable. But so does pushing him away. I type out a quick reply before I can overthink it:

Austin: Just need some time to myself.

Tears sting my eyes as I read his words. He’s being so understanding, so patient, and it makes me feel even worse for keeping this from him.

I clutch the phone to my chest and close my eyes, letting the tears spill over.

I need to tell him—OBVIOUSLY.

I can’t keep this to myself for long, I don’t have it in me to keep secrets. And I can’t lie to him.

But how do you tell the person you’re just learning to love that everything is about to change?

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gio

I’ve been traveling for the past two games, both back-to-back WINS.

The guys are hyped, Coach is finallynotup my asshole every five minutes, and our backup goalie stopped crying in the locker room after practice. Life is good.

Or it should be.

I’m crammed into the middle seat of the plane—because apparently, being hockey players doesn’t warrant first-class treatment unless you’re the Coach—which is fine because I’m preoccupied anyway.

I can’t stop thinking about Austin.

The teammate next to me has been snoring like a chainsaw, and the guy on theotherside keeps elbowing me for clues because he’s working on a Wordle but all I can focus on is her last text.

Austin: Just need some time to myself.

Time to herself?

We only see one another a few times a week!

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