Page 2 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

And just like that, they miss another goal.

How hard is it to shoot the puckintothe net?

"You havegotto be kidding me!” I practically levitate off the stool in frustration, smacking at the bar top as I screech, “Come on!”

The handsome bartender chuckles as he wipes down the counter.

“Rough night?”

“You could say that,” I huff, crossing my arms. “I should be there. You do one nice deed for a friend and look where it lands you.”

I wave a hand at the screen, clearly unimpressed by my team’s lackluster performance.

“Tell me how you really feel.” He grins, sliding another drink my way.

"Maybe they’re losing because I’m not there," I theorize, narrowing my eyes as if I could somehow will the team to score by force of disappointment.

The bartender snorts. "For sure. I’m sure you’re the missing piece."

“I’m serious!” I exclaim, leaning forward. “I haven’t missed a game in years, and now this? There is no such thing as a coincidence.”

He raises an eyebrow. “They play better when you’re screaming from the stands?”

“Exactly!” I’m oddly validated by his sentiment. “My energy fuels them. Theyneedme. And I’m stuck here, drinking this sad little beer while Paul is out there makingromantic historyon the Jumbotron.”

Bastard.

"Paul?” The bartender looks intrigued, wiping down another glass and lingering nearby. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“My boyfriend?” I snort.Please. “No—platonic friends from elementary school.”

He stops wiping and leans forward. “And you’re only here because you let him have your seats.”

I nod, sipping the beer. “Indeed.”

“So you’re a giver?”

Eh?

Is that some sort of sexual innuendo or is he genuinely asking if I’m a kind person?

“Uh.Sure,” I reply cautiously, giving him a half-smile, unsure where this is going. I don’t love it when guys make snarky comments—it makes me uneasy and off-kilter.

My eyes flicker back to the monitor and I realize I missed the last few minutes of the game because of the bartender's chatter.

Damn.

“Shit, what did I miss?” I ask, sitting up straighter, but the bartender grins wider as if pleased he was a distraction.

“You sure are cute when you’re riled up.”

I ignore him as I fixate back on the screen, trying to catch up on the action. I need him to stop talking to me and go away—not flirt.

He is not my type.

I hope he doesn’t try and pass me his phone number because there’s another number I’m obsessed with, and player thirty, the goalie, who is letting one shot after another slide right through his legs like a rookie on open skate night.

Houston is struggling and it’s getting harder to stay calm.

---