Page 57 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

“Never,” she says proudly, chin tilting definitely, the beret on top her head tipping with the motion. “Besides. It’s working out pretty well so far, wouldn’t you say?”

Wow.She is so much like her brother.

“Ask me again in a week,” I tease, though I can feel my cheeks heat up.

“Oh, I will.” Nova nudges me with her elbow, pulling my attention back to her. “Okay, so important question: are you a vocal fan, or do you do the polite golf clap thing?”

“You already know the answer to that.” I roll my eyes. “You saw me in action, remember?”

Her response is a burst of laughter as the puck drops in the center of the ice and play begins.

The puck zips from stick to stick, the action quick and relentless. The tension in the air is palpable, every play met with gasps or cheers. Then, Gio intercepts a pass with a sharp flick of his stick, sending the puck flying toward a teammate. The crowd erupts as the play progresses, and Nova jumps to her feet, her voice cutting through the noise.

“Nice save, Gio!” she screams, jumping up from her seat.

The last thing I want is the television cameras finding me and putting me on the ne?—

Nova elbows me sharply, cutting off my internal monologue. “Do it.”

I blink, confused. “Do what?”

“Say something mean!” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s part of the deal, remember?”

I stare at her like she’s lost her mind. “I am not going to say mean things to him in front of his sister! We just talked about how you don’t want anyone dating him who’s an asshole!”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Not the same thing. This is heckling. It’s tradition. You’re doing it out of love.”

“No one else knows that!” I gesture to the surrounding crowd. “To them, I’m just some psycho yelling insults at their precious goalie.”

Whom I also totally love.

Not love, love—but you get what I’m saying.

He’s my favorite.

She laughs, tipping her head toward a guy a few rows down. “Look around you—half the crowd is pissed off at him for those losses.” She points at the man’s oversized foam finger, which is clearly not being used for supportive purposes. “See that guy? HehatesGio. His sign literally says‘GIO EATS SHIT.’”

I squint at the crude letters painted on the obnoxiously large poster. “He’s a Nashville fan, Nova. Of course he wants Gio to eat shit.”

“Exactly!” she says triumphantly, throwing her hands in the air. “You’ll blend right in! Come on, get up.”

I stay firmly planted in my seat, crossing my arms. “This is peer pressure, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“This is thereasonyou’re here,” she counters, undeterred. “Do it.”

Before I can protest, she gives me a nudge, and somehow, against all better judgment, my ass rises out of my seat. The crowd roars around us as a near miss on the ice draws everyone’s attention.

Perfect—no one will notice me making a fool of myself.

I groan as she hands me the GET IT TOGETHER sign.

Take a deep breath.

Glance around nervously down at the ice. For a second, I wonder if he’s even aware of the crowd. Then, with a burst of courage—or insanity—I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “HEY, GIO! MY GRANDMOTHER HANDLES A PUCK BETTER THAN YOU!”

The words echo loud and clear, slicing through the cheers and whistles.

It feels as if everyone heard it.

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