Page 58 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

On the ice, Gio’s head snaps up. Even with his helmet on, I canfeelthe glare he’s aiming in our direction. He shakes his head, and I’m pretty sure I see his shoulders shake in a laugh before he refocuses on the game.

“Happy now?” I ask.

My heart is pounding in my throat and I’ve never had this much unwanted attention before in my life. I hate it. Heat creeps up my neck, pooling in my cheeks, as if everyone in the arena is staring at me (they’re not, but it surefeelslike they are).

“No,” his sister demands, straightening up with a mischievous grin. “Do one more.”

I gasp. “Absolutely not.”

“Now you have stage fright?” She laughs. “Yell one more insult and I’ll buy you nachos.”

That gets my attention because I could totally eat a snack.

All I have is this measly beer, and drinking on an empty stomach isn’t exactly smart. My stomach growls in agreement, making the decision all the more tempting.

I glance back at the ice, where Gio is crouched in the crease, his glove and stick poised, completely in the zone. The opposing team is charging down the rink, and the puck flies from player to player with lightning speed.

It’s a tense moment, the crowd leaning forward in collective anticipation.

“Fine,” I mutter, gripping my sign tightly. “But if I get booed, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Nova claps her hands together, positively gleeful. “Deal. But make it count!”

I wish she’d stop telling me what to do as I focus my attention on Gio; the puck hurtles toward him. Then. Just as the opposing player winds up for a slapshot, I yell at the top of my lungs, “HEY, GIO! ARE YOU GONNA STOP THAT PUCK ORINVITE IT TO DINNER?”

It’s loud.

So much louder than I intended.

So loud in fact, several heads turn my way.

I watch in horror as Gio flinches—it’s enough to throw him off.

The puck zips past his glove and into the net. The goal horn blares, and the opposing team’s fans erupt in cheers. My jaw falls open as he stands, broad shoulders rising and falling with exaggerated breaths.

He turns his head, looking directly at me. Even from here, I can see the glare in his eyes, like he’s silently saying,Really?

The guy with theGIO EATS SHITsign raises his foam finger in a salute of approval and waves it at me in solidarity.

Great.

I’ve joined the ranks of the haters.

Nova isdyingbeside me, doubled over with laughter. Positively. Dying.

“That was perfect.” She can barely speak. “You’re officially my favorite person.”

“I just cost him a goal!” I hiss, sinking back into my seat and hiding my face behind the sign. DON’T LOOK AT ME!

“He’s going to kill me.”

“No he’s not,” Nova says, waving me off. “If anything, he’s going to play even harder now just to spite you. Watch.”

Sure enough, as the game continues, Gio is a brick wall. He deflects every shot with precision and speed, his movements sharper and more aggressive than before. The throng roars withevery save, and even I can’t help but cheer for him, my earlier embarrassment fading into awe.

I live for this shit!

Between plays, he glances up at the stands and points his stick in my direction, a subtle but unmistakable acknowledgment at my presence. Nova nudges me, her grin so wide it might split her face in two.

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