Page 59 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot
“See?” she says smugly. “He loves it. You’re his muse.”
“His muse?” I repeat, rolling my eyes. “More like his nightmare.”
“Same thing.” Nova shrugs, stealing a sip of my beer. “Oh hey—you know what this reminds me of?”
“What?”
“Foreplay.”
I nearly choke on my breath. “What?!”
“You heard me,” she says, entirely too pleased with herself. “The insults, the banter, the way he keeps glancing up here? Foreplay. You two are basically stripping each other naked with words.” I hear her sigh. “I mean, look at the moron. He’s been onfiresince you started shouting at him. You’ve unlocked hispassion.”
“Or his rage,” I mutter, sinking lower in my seat, though her words linger in the back of my mind, unwelcome and intrusive.
I can’t help it though—can’t help but wonder if she has a point. Him coming to my office unannounced, leaning against my desk with that cocky grin. Me lobbing insults. Watching him glare toward my seat. Watching him stop every puck. Him pointing his stick in my direction….
Thinking about it is getting me so hot.
My stomach is a mess of knots, and my face is practically on fire. I take a long sip of my beer, hoping the cold will cool me down, but it doesn’t help.
I need water.
A cold shower.
And those nachos I was promised.
11
gio
Steam still clings to the bathroom mirror as I rub a towel through my hair, the faint ache in my muscles a satisfying reminder of tonight’s game. The second shower of the night was necessary—post-game adrenaline always leaves me too wired to just crash, and nothing clears my head like scalding water and a moment of silence.
The house is quiet, except for the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the floorboards as I pad barefoot down the hallway.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and flop onto the couch, letting my head rest against the cushions as I unlock my phone.
Gio: Roses are red, violets are blue, that’s two in a row… so I feel like I owe you…
Austin: Wow.
Austin: Just…WOW.
Gio: I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.
There’s a pause, and I can practically feel her debating how to respond. When the three dots finally appear, I stare, waiting.
Austin: Don’t do that.
Gio: Do what?
Austin: Say you’re a poet and didn’t even know it. That’s horrible. So cheesy.
Gio: Sorry??
I’m not sorry. Not even the tiniest bit.
Austin: Okay pal, let’s get down to business. What’s your excuse for letting that puck past you in the first period?
