Page 48 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

“Yeah, you goof. Us. I’d love to see you at my next game.”

I roll my eyes. It’s impossible not to. “Yeah—so you win.”

“That’s not the only reason I want you there, but if it gets you to the arena, I’ll take it.”

Gio Montagalo is still sniffing after me to be his good luck charm and the thought still blows my mind. Of all the things…

“You’ll come around to my way of thinking.”

Arrogant bastard.

I open my mouth to argue—tell him how ridiculous he sounds. Unfortunately the words get stuck somewhere between my brain and my lips and before I can untangle the mess of thoughts swirling in my head, he steps back, hands sliding into his pockets.

“I’ll see you later, Professor,” he says, giving me a wink that manages to feel both playful and arrogant. Like he knows I’m putty in his big, strong hands.

Then.

He turns and walks out of my office, leaving me staring after him like a freaking idiot.

When the door closes behind him, my hand drifts to my lips, still tingling from the kiss; my brain struggles to catch up with what just happened.

Whatdidjust happen?

I blink at the door, half-expecting him to come back, to say something else, to explain himself. But he doesn’t. He’s gone, and I’m left alone in my office, my thoughts racing and my heart still pounding.

Think about it.

As if I’ll be able to think about anything else.

9

gio

Iwhistle while I skate to the center of the goal, the tune for my ears only.

It’s one that’s been stuck in my head all morning; a melody with no name and something to keep my nerves steady.

As I settle into position, the familiar rhythm of practice takes over. The ice is my sanctuary, the only place where everything else fades away—except maybe for her.

I smile at the thought of Austin.

Coach blows the whistle, signaling the next round of shots, and I drop into my stance, stick ready, eyes sharp. Charlie barrels toward me first, puck on his blade, trying to deke left.

Rookie beyotch.

I slide smoothly to cut him off, my pads swallowing the puck with a satisfyingthud.

“Nice try.”

Not.

I flick the puck out of my crease and back toward the blue line.

I hear him groan.

“Come on, bro. Can’t you let one through? For morale?”

“Not my job,” I reply, grinning behind my mask.

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