Page 54 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I want to.

But I can’t.

The man is cocky enough; I’m not about to stroke his ego by showing up to the game wearing his name across my back and his number across my chest.

Nervously, I check my makeup one more time, leaning forward for a closer look as I rub glossy lip stain over my bottom lip with the tip of my pinkie finger.

I slide into my boots, glancing down at Gio.

My dog.

Yes.

My dog's name is Gio—have I failed to mention that?

And I know what you’re thinking: “Austin, there is no way you can tell the man you named your dog after him. He’ll think you’re a total psycho!”

Bullshit. Plenty of people name their pets after their favorite players. People get tattoos of their faces, their numbers, their freaking stats! People do far crazier things, and let’s be real—there are probably a dozen other animals named after Gio out there.

Mine is just one of many.

So there.

"Listen, buddy.” I look down at him. “I’ll only be gone for the first period." I pause, reconsidering. "Maybe two." I sigh as he stares up at me, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. "Okay, fine—I might stay the whole time. But I won’t be late."

I crouch down, scratching behind his ears. "I’ll keep an eye on you with the cameras, and if you’re having a rough night, I’ll have Dolly come check on you. Deal?"

He just keeps gazing up at me with those big, soulful eyes.

"Don’t look at me like that. You can’t come with me."

He blinks.

I give him more pets.

"Gio, seriously, stop. You had school today, played with all your friends—you should be knocked out in your bed right now, not making me feel bad about leaving."

I stand. "Be good, okay? No guilt trips. No chewing the couch cushions. I mean it this time."

He tilts his head, all innocent and adorable, as if he has no idea what I’m talking about. But he knows: Gio is a chewer and often gets into trouble, hence the cameras throughout my apartment.

Video evidence.

"Alright, I’m going. And Iwillbe checking the cameras.” I narrow my eyes.

I grab my keys and the sign I made for the last game that screamsGET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, and sprinkled in glitter.

Thank God I saved it because I’m too lazy and too busy to make a new one.

Heading for the door, I squeeze through it so Gio the Dog cannot follow, shutting it gently before I can change my mind and stay home.

The crisp night air hits my face as I step outside, my breath puffing in small clouds. The streetlights flicker faintly, and I pullmy jacket tighter around me as I make my way to the curb—the Uber I ordered is already waiting to take me to the game.

It’s a busy night—most home games are—and I find my seat section as the players are taking the ice. I hold the rail as I take the steps down, making my way to the first row, carefully balancing the beer I bought in one hand and the sign in the other, while navigating the crowd.

People are running up and down the steps to get concessions and pee before the game starts and it’s hectic.

Loud.

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