Page 21 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

“Obviously,” I echo, not even bothering to argue.

“You know,” she says, waving her pretzel at the ice, “if you scream loud enough, Gio might actually notice your sign. Then again, I doubt he’ll be able to read it with how fast you’ll be waving it.”

I laugh, holding up the bright blue poster board for emphasis.

“That’s the plan.” I lift it from the spot where I’ve tucked it. “I want him to know the fans haven’t forgotten about his last game. Better luck this time, buddy!” I shout, lifting it.

Bright yellow paper.

Bold lettering.

Blue glitter.

Team colors.

There isn’t a chance Montagalo will miss this sign.

Dolly snickers as I wave it over my head like a maniac, even though the players haven’t taken the ice yet.

“You’re going to throw out your shoulder before the game even starts,” she says, biting into her pretzel.

“Worth it,” I say, lowering it cause she’s right; my arm is beginning to hurt and I need to save my energy. The team will be out soon— after the lights dim and the Jumbotron explodes with graphics and loud music, of course.

It’s all part of the show, and I am HERE FOR IT!

Hell yeah!

The pregame video begins to play; the highlight reel illuminates the arena, displaying Houston’s best plays from the season. Every goal, every hat trick, every save—it’s a montage designed to rile us up, and it works.

The crowd’s energy builds with every second, and I can feel the vibration of their cheers in my chest.

The lights go out.

Swirling blue and yellow spotlights sweep across the ice.

Smoke machines crank out thick billowing clouds along the player tunnel, and the first strains of Houston’s anthem blare through the speakers.

Dolly jumps beside me, clutching my arm as she screams along with the crowd and I grip my sign tightly as the announcer’s voice booms through the arena.

“Ladiesadiesand gentlemen…entleman,” the announcer's voice booms out an echo. “Please standand and. For your Houston ouston. Baddiessss!”

The team bursts onto the ice, one by one, to thunderous applause and my eyes seek out Montagalo. He skates out last—the goalie always does—name echoing through the arena as the crowd roars and a few boos.

Yikes.

He skates in circles around the rink, his movements smooth and confident, and I tremble, excited, as I clutch this ridiculous sign.

Waiting.

“Think he sees me?”

“Not yet.” Dolly squints in his direction, chewing on her snack. “But give it time. You’re hard to miss with that obnoxious sign.”

I laugh, nudging her. “You’re jealous you didn’t make one.”

“Not jealous,” she says, holding up her pretzel like it’s the trophy of the night. “I know my priorities.”

Pucks fly in every direction as they pass, shoot, and slap them against the boards. The arena buzzes with anticipation, but my eyes are glued to one person—Montagalo.

---