Page 29 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

“Good. You agree.” Danica clicks her tongue, the familiar sound of her keyboard clattering faintly in the background. I picture her sitting at her desk, glasses perched on her nose, fingers flying over her laptop as she plots my damage control. “So this is what I was thinking—wait. Youdoknow this woman, correct? She’s not some fan you decided to indulge?”

I shake my head, even though she can’t see it. “No, not a fan. She’s actually, uh, a neighbor.”

Sort of.

Danica goes silent for a moment, and I know that pause isn’t good. “How long have you known her?”

“Uh.” I do the mental math, from the time I sat my ass down on that barstool on the corner, to this very second. “About forty-nine hours?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she mutters under her breath.

“I said she’s kind of a neighbor!” I defend myself.

“You said she was a neighbor!”

“It’s the same thing!”

“Does she live in the same building?” Danica fires back before I can finish my protest. She doesn’t give me a chance to respond before barreling on. “What’s her occupation?”

I shrug, pulling open the fridge and staring blankly inside. “Don’t know.”

“Youdon’t know?” Her disbelief is palpable through the phone, as if she isn’t listening to a single thing I’ve said. “Great. Okay. Fantastic. So, we’ll go with: She’s someone you’ve been seeing, and it’s not serious.”

“Yes. I see her with my eyes,” I joke, grabbing a bottle of water.

Danica groans. “Gio, I swear to God, if you keep making jokes?—”

“What do you want me to say?” I interrupt impatiently, leaning against the counter. “Should we lie and say she’s the love of my life and we’re planning our wedding for next summer?”

“That might actually help,” she mutters, typing.

I laugh. “Yeah, until they start following her to the grocery store and asking her how many kids we’re going to have.”

There’s a beat of silence, and for once, Danica doesn’t have asnappy comeback. “You’re right, that’s exactly what’s going to happen thanks to your impulsiveness.” There’s another pause. “That’s why we need to control the narrative before it controls you—or her.”

I rub the back of my neck, staring at the floor. This isn’t my first rodeo. Ever since I went pro, I’ve been stuck in this endless song and dance with the media—and I have the bad choices in women to thank for most of it.

Not this time. I will not let my past come back to haunt me.

“Fine,” I mutter. “What do you need me to do?”

“First, you’re going to text her and let her know what’s happening,” Danica dictates, her businesslike tone snapping into place. “Then, we’re going to draft a statement together. Something vague, but clear so we can all move on with our lives. Got it?”

“Got it,” I reply. “You’re the boss.”

I can hear Danica smile. “Thanks.”

She laughs, unbothered. Danica reminds me of a barracuda, but with glasses and adult braces. Ruthless and polished. The kind of person who smiles while she sinks her teeth into you.

“Look,” she says, her voice softening slightly. “I know this sucks, but if we play our cards right, this will all blow over in a few days. Just follow my lead.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, already pulling up my messages. “I’ve got it under control.”

“Good. And Gio?”

“What?”

“Try not to make it worse.”

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