Page 50 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

He feigns left. He feigns right. But I’m already reading him, tracking the puck as he swings left again and goes for a wrist shot.

Not today.

I snap my glove hand out, catching the puck mid-air with asatisfying smack. He groans as I toss the puck back into play, giving myself a mental pat on the back.

“That's all you’ve got?” I taunt, feeling the rush of adrenaline. “My grandmother could shoot better than that.”

She can’t—but you get what I’m saying.

The drills continue and my mind keeps wandering. I wonder what Austin is doing right now. Lecturing a class? Telling another poor undergrad they’ve got no chance of an extension on their paper? Teaching the future of the world while I’m here in a cold rink, chasing pucks and nagging my teammates.

What does a guy like me even have to offer someone like her? She’s got degrees on her wall, a sharp wit, and a life filled with intellectual conversations. And me? I’ve got a stick and a pair of skates. Pads and a face mask.

Big.

Dumb.

Jock.

Who drives a big, dumb, truck.

Eventually, Coach’s whistle blows to signal the end of practice; we skate to the bench and I grab my water bottle. The guys are still ribbing me as we head off the ice—I let it roll off my back. Let them talk.

Let them speculate.

Because the truth is, they’re not wrong.

And I know the first thing I’m going to do when I’m dressed is send Austin a message because I just cannot fucking resist.

Why should I?

I presented her with a challenge; so by the time I’m dressed and pulling my phone out of my bag, I’ve already got a message drafted in my head:

Miss me yet?

Not very clever, but no one has ever accused me of being a poet.

Hitting send before I can overthink it, I shove my phone back in my pocket like it’s burning a hole there. The guys are still lingering near the locker room doors, talking about grabbing food, but I wave off their invitations, citing an excuse about needing to head home to help Nova.

Truth is, I’ve got no plans other than replaying the last two days in my head and wondering how the hell I ended up here: nearly obsessed with a woman completely out of my league.

Me? I’ve got one foot out the door, my mind already miles away, wondering what kind of witty, sassy, flirty thing Austin is going to say back.

Sliding into my truck, I dig my phone out of my duffle and check for a notification, wondering what kind of witty, sassy, flirty thing Austin is going to respond with.

Nothing.

I don’t know why I thought she’d respond immediately—as she so eloquently pointed out, she’s got a career.A life. Unlike me, who spends his days practicing a sport. Working out. Conditioning. In rehab or recovery.

Sigh.

Finally the phone buzzes. Lights up my cupholder. My pulse kicks up as I grab it, already grinning like a damn fool.

Her reply is short, simple:

Austin: Don’t flatter yourself.

Austin: Are you flirting with me?

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