Page 112 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

“You know your namesake is kind of a big deal, right?” I continue, my voice softer now as we turn down a quieter street.

“Professional hockey player. Famous. Everyone loves him.”

He’s so hot.

I don’t say this part out loud, even though the dog has no idea what the hell I’m saying.

“What if I don’t fit into his world?” The thought has been sitting in the back of my mind for a while now, quietly gnawing away at my confidence. Gio’s world is big, flashy, full of people who expect him to be perfect all the time.

The world I’ve created for myself is small, predictable, and comfortable.

Boring, until now.

Safe.

Just me, my dog, and I.

Gio pauses to sniff at a patch of grass, completely oblivious to the mini-spiral happening above him. I tug gently on his leash, and we keep moving.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s amazing,” I admit, the words tumbling out as if saying them out loud will help me make sense of them. “He’s funny and ridiculously good in bed.”

The sex is so good.

“That thing he does with his tongue? My God.”

Gio barks, snapping me out of my thoughts, and I glance down to see him wagging his tail again, his excitement undeterred by my brooding.

“You’re right. Sorry,” I say, laughing softly. “Probably not the kind of thing I should be sharing with you, huh?” I go on. “It’s not that I don’t trust him,” I continue, thoughts taking a sharp left turn.

“I do. But dating someone like him? I’m basically just a nerd.”

A sexy nerd.

“The weird thing is he loves it. Like—he loves that I’m aprofessor. I think it turns him on. Is that weird? Is that a fetish?” It has to be.

Gio pees on a garbage can.

“You’re right, intelligence is sexy.”

I shouldn’t discount that.

“I worked my ass off to get to where I am the same way he did.”

Well. Not exactly the same.

He uses his body, I use my brain.

That’s the polite way of putting it, anyway. The man spends his life skating around in full gear, dodging pucks and body checks, while I sit at a desk grading papers about thecultural hegemonyandstructural functionalismto students who barely make it to class on time.

Totally not the same.

“But seriously,” I say, glancing down at Gio as he trots along beside me, blissfully unaware of the existential crisis happening just a few feet above him. “What do you think he sees in me? Objectively? Because I can’t figure it out.”

Gio barks, his tail wagging furiously as we turn a corner, and I roll my eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I know—you think I’m amazing. You also eat cat shit and chase your own tail, so excuse me if I give little weight in your opinion of me.”

“Gio. His ex-girlfriends all look like runway models and here I am with my cardigan collection and a bad habit of accidentally quoting Jane Austen when I’m flustered.” I tug at my baby blue cardigan sweater; it’s layered over a white tee shirt.

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