Page 44 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

“You are,” he tells me matter-of-factly. “You’re going to make this more complicated than it needs to be.”

“Itiscomplicated,” I argue, though my conviction feels shaky. “You’re you. And I’m not.”

“You’re not me?” He raises a brow, clearly unimpressed with my logic. “What does that even mean?”

“I meant—you’re you and I’m me.” I fumble for the right words. “This doesn’t make sense.Wedon’t make sense.”

“Says who?” he asks, leaning back in his chair like he’s completely at ease.

“Says reality,” I snap, overwhelmed with the conversation. I did not wake up planning for this.

I did not plan for him.

Obviously.

“Reality is overrated,” he quips, his grin widening. “Haven’t you learned that by now? The internet says so.”

“Oh shut up.” I laugh.

He seizes the opening, shifting tactics. “Did you read the article about yourself this morning onSports Center?”

My head shakes. No I have not.

“You should,” he says casually, leaning back in his chair. “It makes you look like the better, smarter part of this partnership.”

“Partnership?” I echo, arching a brow.

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “You’re the one with the Ivy League degree—I went to a Podunk college in Canada and used pancakes to make sandwiches when we ran out of bread.”

I blink at him, my lips twitching as I try to suppress a smile.

“Pancakes? Really?”

“Hey, they’re versatile,” he says, completely serious. “And don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. They’re so fluffy.”

That does sound delicious.

“Anyway. The media loves you. They also love the fact that you were roasting me at the game.”

I snort.

“It’s what any sports loving enthusiast would do, given your recent stats.”

He clutches his chest like I’ve just mortally wounded him. “Wow. Straight for the jugular, huh?”

“Some would say I helped you win this last game.”

“That’s exactly what they’re saying. You’re my good luck charm.”

Good luck charm?

“Please don’t tell me you believe in superstitions.” Although if I’m being fair, most athletes have some kind of pre-game superstitious ritual.

“Are you out of your mind? Of course I do!” he replies, looking genuinely offended by the suggestion that hewouldn’t.

I can’t help but laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious,” he says, leaning forward like he’s about to let me in on some life-altering secret. “Do you have any idea how many rituals go into being a hockey player? It’s practically a religion.”