Page 49 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

The next shooter is Liam, one of the wingers who never stops chirping, even during drills. He skates in fast, snapping the puck toward the top corner. I react on instinct, my glove shooting up to snatch it out of the air.

“Denied!” I shout, tossing the puck lazily to the ice.

I am in the fucking zone.

Liam flips me the bird—I can’t see it because of his mitt, but I translate the gesture as:Fuck you, dude.

It’s all banter. Lighthearted, easy. Beneath the facade, I feel my focus sharpening with every save. Every blocked shot is another reminder of why I’m here, why I love this game, why I’m good at it.

But then, like an annoying little whisper, her face creeps into my mind. Austin. Sitting at her desk, rolling her eyes at me.

She’s so damn sexy.

A professor—who would have imagined that!

The mental image of her standing in front of a classroom, commanding the room with her wit and intelligence, does something to my dick that I can’t explain.

She’s fucking thrilling.

Never met a woman like her.

I’m standing in the box though my mind is back in her little office, imagining her in the glasses that were resting on her desk. Imagining hernakedon her desk…wearing heels. I imagine what her tits might look like. If they’d spill out of my hands, or if they’re small—like her.

Her sassy mouth gets me so hot and bothered.

The thoughts are so vivid my cock twitches inside my gear.

Coach’s whistle pierces the air, dragging me back to the present. Another drill. Another shot to block. I drop into position, but my mind is half a step behind, lingering on Austin’s sharp tongue and her softer side—both of which I’ve gotten glimpses of.

Another sharp whistle.

Get it together, Gio.This is practice, not fantasy hour.

“Why are you in such a damn good mood?” One of my teammates skates past and heckles me.

I roll my eyes, flipping my mask up and resting it on my head.

“Maybe I’m just happy to be here, fucker—ever thought of that?”

“Since when?” Collins skates around the neck, continuing to taunt me. “Is it that chick on the news?”

DING DING DING.

Bingo.

My mask flips back down and I refocus on the ice, trying to ignore the heat crawling up the back of my neck.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit,” he shouts back, skating closer. “That chick is all over social media, and so are you. Your ‘brilliant and beautiful’ good luck charm? Makes me want to vomit—what’s the deal with you two?”

Of course it would make him want to vomit.

From what I know, Collins is relationship adverse and would rather sleep around than settle down. Not that I have room to talk; that’s been my track record, too, until the past year of reevaluating my priorities.

“Our deal is none ya business,” I snap, crouching back into position as Coach lines up the next drill. “Maybe if you spent more time shooting pucks and less time gossiping like a middle schooler, you’d actually score on me for once.”

“Why are you being a bitch about it? I’m just asking.”

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