Page 28 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot
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gio
Space?
Turns out I didn’t have to give her space because the media wouldn’t let me.
My photo was plastered all over sports television—front and center, lips pressed against the plexi during our game against the Ravens.
I scroll through my phone, headline after headline taunting me like a bad breakup song: “MONTAGALO’S MYSTERY GIRL: WHO IS SHE?” and “HOCKEY’S HEARTTHROB BREAKS FUNK.”
Fantastic.
Just what the world needs—my face, every damn where.
The good news?
Apparently I’m out of my funk, the credit for breaking it bestowed on Austin—though the media doesn’t have a name to go with the face, which was artfully captured in high-def.
Her expression? Absolutely priceless.
So damn funny I laughed the first time I saw it, replaying on a loop in severalTop Plays of the Weeksegments on the sports apps. Except this time, the play in question wasn’t my save.
Nope.
It was me—one of the league’s favorite bachelors—blasted for flirting with a hockey fan. Or girlfriend?
No one knows.
The memes are relentless.
“PUCK BUNNY OR TRUE LOVE?”
“WHEN HOCKEY IS YOUR FIRST LOVE BUT SHE'S A CLOSE SECOND.”
By the time I reached the rest of them—my face photoshopped onto a cheesy romance novel cover titledSkates of Passion—I’d had enough.
I toss my phone to the kitchen counter and rub my temples, trying to figure out how my life spiraled into internet fodder overnight.
Then my phone buzzes. Again.
Not a text this time—an actual call. I groan when I see the name flashing on the screen.
Except this is the third time she’s called this morning and if I don’t eventually answer, she’s going to assume I’m avoiding her. Which I am.
Or dead.
Which I’m not.
“What?” I say, already pacing the kitchen.
“Gio, we need a statement,” she says without a greeting, drawling the sentence out in a southern accent.
“A statement?” I repeat, pressing a finger against my temple. “What am I supposed to say?”
She sighs. “Gio the media’s digging. They’re trying to figure out who she is and if we don’t get ahead of it, they’re going to be camping outside her door by lunch.”
“False.” I run a hand through my hair. “They’re going to be camped out no matter what.”
