Page 22 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

He skates slowly. Deliberately.

Does laps around his crease, stretching and settling into his rhythm.

Every few laps, he veers out, circling past the blue line before coasting back, movements smooth, confident, and mesmerizing.

I sit frozen, gripping the sign in my fingers, holding my breath every time he gets closer to the place where we’re sitting.

Closer to the glass.

Close enough to…

“Relax.” Dolly laughs, nudging me with her elbow. “He’s some dude on skates.”

He’s not just a dude on skates.

My heart thuds in my chest as I lean forward, gripping the edge of my seat.

Literally on the edge of my seat.

I stand.

Dolly grabs the sign and thrusts it forward, glitter catching beneath the lights.

BETTER LUCK THIS TIME.

It beckons him.

On his next lap, he slows as he approaches our section,gloved hand pushing at his helmet and I swear he’s looking right at me.

My breath catches. For a moment—the briefest of moments—I think I’m imagining it. But then…he coasts closer still…stopping inside the blue line, and lifts his mask.

Oh my God.

It’s him.

I’m literally frozen, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. How did I not piece it together before? The easy smile, the confident swagger—it all makes sense now.

The realization hits me like a slapshot to the chest.

I insulted him. I told him he shit the bed.

That he was going through it.

To hisface.

I mean—not to his face—I didn’t know at the time it was him, but you get what I’m saying!

My heart pounds as memories of that night at the bar flood back—the teasing remarks, the sarcastic comments, the way I scoffed at his “generous” offer of tickets because I didn’t think he’d follow through.

Oh, he followed through all right.

“I’m going to puke.”

I roasted him and he gave me the tickets anyway.

Oh he’s grinning at me alright, coming to a stop in front of our seats.

“Hey.” I see him mouth. “You made the sign.”

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