Page 168 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

“No way,” I whisper, my brows furrowing as I study his profile.

Luca’s profile picture is exactly what you’d expect from a good-looking athlete: standing on a beach, shirtless, with a volleyball tucked under one arm and a smug grin that could rival Gio’s on a good day. His bio?Goal-oriented. Literally. Bonus points if you like dogs and can handle trash-talking during game night.

Well.

That’s snarkier and more clever than I would’ve given him credit for, considering I’ve always considered Luca Babineaux boring as fuck.

I squint at the screen; something about it doesn’t sit right.

Where are the hockey pictures? The gear? The action shots from their games?

Not a single one.

Instead, I’m greeted with more photos of Luca on a beach or on a catamaran, laughing with his arm slung around Paulie Osborne—a famous comedian, of all people.

“Okay,what?” I mutter, flipping to the next photo.

There’s one of him in a flannel, holding a coffee cup during what looks like the holidays. A random mountain range looms out the living room window, majestic and snowy and gorgeous.

Then there’s Luca on a motorcycle, looking like he just strolled out of a movie poster.

“Who the hell is this guy?” I ask no one, my voice dripping with suspicion.

I keep scrolling.

I’m so fascinated.

Him standing with two young women that resemble him—sisters? Cousins? Another photo of him snorkeling, his face half-hidden behind goggles and a snorkel tube.

And then there’s a selfie of him hiking with that black lab puppy he had six months ago—only now, the dog’s mostly grown, its floppy ears framing an adorably derpy face.

I set my phone down for a moment, rubbing my temples.

It doesn’t make sense. Luca’s life isn’t this…glamorous.Is it?I mean, he plays hockey, hangs out with my brother and his teammates, and from what I know—goes home and sleeps. None of this beach-and-motorcycle nonsense fits the image I have of him.

Unless…

I glance back at the screen, narrowing my eyes.

Could someone be pretending to be him? It wouldn’t be hard—there are hundreds of photos of him on the internet and he has a face only a mother could love.

“What do you think, Gio?” I say to the dog, asking for his advice. “Is this him, or is someone out there pretending to be Luca freaking Babineaux?”

Gio yawns, showing off his tiny, uneven teeth, and turns his head away, clearly over my dramatics.

“Thanks for your input,” I mutter, picking my phone back up.

I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen.

Do I swipe right and investigate? Or do I swipe left and pretend I never saw it?

Because if it’s him…it’s going to be super awkward.

But if it’s not him…it could behilarious.

I hold my breath.

Close my eyes.

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