Page 10

10

austin

I cannot force myself to wear a MONTAGALO jersey.

I want to.

But I can’t.

The man is cocky enough; I’m not about to stroke his ego by showing up to the game wearing his name across my back and his number across my chest.

Nervously, I check my makeup one more time, leaning forward for a closer look as I rub glossy lip stain over my bottom lip with the tip of my pinkie finger.

I slide into my boots, glancing down at Gio.

My dog.

Yes.

My dog's name is Gio—have I failed to mention that?

And I know what you’re thinking: “ Austin, there is no way you can tell the man you named your dog after him. He’ll think you’re a total psycho!”

Bullshit. Plenty of people name their pets after their favorite players. People get tattoos of their faces, their numbers, their freaking stats! People do far crazier things, and let’s be real—there are probably a dozen other animals named after Gio out there .

Mine is just one of many.

So there.

"Listen, buddy.” I look down at him. “I’ll only be gone for the first period." I pause, reconsidering. "Maybe two." I sigh as he stares up at me, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. "Okay, fine—I might stay the whole time. But I won’t be late."

I crouch down, scratching behind his ears. "I’ll keep an eye on you with the cameras, and if you’re having a rough night, I’ll have Dolly come check on you. Deal?"

He just keeps gazing up at me with those big, soulful eyes.

"Don’t look at me like that. You can’t come with me."

He blinks.

I give him more pets.

"Gio, seriously, stop. You had school today, played with all your friends—you should be knocked out in your bed right now, not making me feel bad about leaving."

I stand. "Be good, okay? No guilt trips. No chewing the couch cushions. I mean it this time."

He tilts his head, all innocent and adorable, as if he has no idea what I’m talking about. But he knows: Gio is a chewer and often gets into trouble, hence the cameras throughout my apartment.

Video evidence.

"Alright, I’m going. And I will be checking the cameras.” I narrow my eyes.

I grab my keys and the sign I made for the last game that screams GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER , and sprinkled in glitter.

Thank God I saved it because I’m too lazy and too busy to make a new one.

Heading for the door, I squeeze through it so Gio the Dog cannot follow, shutting it gently before I can change my mind and stay home.

The crisp night air hits my face as I step outside, my breath puffing in small clouds. The streetlights flicker faintly, and I pull my jacket tighter around me as I make my way to the curb—the Uber I ordered is already waiting to take me to the game.

It’s a busy night—most home games are—and I find my seat section as the players are taking the ice. I hold the rail as I take the steps down, making my way to the first row, carefully balancing the beer I bought in one hand and the sign in the other, while navigating the crowd.

People are running up and down the steps to get concessions and pee before the game starts and it’s hectic.

Loud.

The energy in the arena is electric, everyone in scarves and jerseys, shouting encouragement before the game has even begun.

When I reach my row, I stop in my tracks. Instead of there being an empty seat next to me, sitting there with an air of practiced coolness is Nova. Gio’s sister.

Oh.

My.

God.

She’s slouched in the seat, one ankle crossed over her knee, scrolling through her phone like she’s got better places to be, but decided to grace the rink with her presence anyway. Her platinum-blonde hair is tucked beneath a knit beanie, and her leather jacket stands out starkly against the sea of team colors.

She doesn’t glance up as I awkwardly shuffle closer, gripping my beer like a shield.

I shuffle closer.

Nova glances up.

Raises her gaze.

The moment her eyes land on me, they light up like the alarm above the goalie net.

“Austin!” she exclaims, standing halfway like she’s about to pull me into some kind of enthusiastic hug but thinks better of it at the last second. “ Finally ! I thought you’d never show up!”

She looks so happy to see me !

“Oh lord,” she continues as I get closer, reaching to flick the sign in my hand. “Is that the sign from last week?” She grabs the bright yellow cardboard and flips it over, inspecting it with a deep frown. “I thought the two of you were getting along!”

“We are!” I laugh, settling into my seat and unwinding the striped scarf around my neck. My hair sticks up in a few directions, and I smooth it with one hand. “He wanted me to bring it again—for good luck.”

Nova’s face stays blank for a long beat, her mouth slightly parted like she’s buffering and can’t quite process what I just said. Then, out of nowhere, she bursts into full-blown laughter—the kind that has her doubling over with shaking shoulders.

“Good luck?” she gasps between giggles.

“Yes! I’m supposed to heckle him too. It’s motivational?” I shrug, as if questioning the logic of this whole situation. But if there’s one thing I understand, it’s superstitions and routine and trying to keep my team on a winning streak because as a fan, I have my own pre-game ritual so my team wins.

“Why is he like this?” his sister says. “Why can’t he, oh, I don’t know , wear the same socks like a normal weirdo athlete? No, no—he’d rather be publicly roasted.”

Whatever works.

“Do you want to hold the sign instead?” I deadpan, lifting the sign toward her like it’s the Olympic torch. “That totally counts, right?”

Her laughter cranks up a notch as she grabs the sign and holds it high, waving it around, glitter sparkling under the bright lights.

The crowd eats it up, erupting in cheers and whistles.

“Yes!” she whoops. “I’m absolutely taking credit for this moment.”

“You weren’t even here last week!” I shout over the commotion, laughing despite myself as I reach for the sign. “You can’t just swoop in and steal your brother's humiliation from me!”

“Correction.” Nova’s green eyes sparkle mischievously. “It’s not humiliating if I’m doing it. It’s entertainment. You plus me equals the dynamic duo of public embarrassment.”

“He was begging for me to bring this.” I snort, lunging for the sign again. “Don’t be a glory hound.”

“Too late,” Nova quips, raising the sign even higher and twirling it like she’s in a parade. “The crowd loves me.”

Before I can retort, my attention shifts.

Out on the ice, a familiar, hulking figure skates toward us. Big, brawny, and unmistakably looking straight in my direction.

He stops right in front of us, his stick tapping against the plexiglass with an audible thunk that feels like a scolding all on its own. Even through his face mask, his frown is visible, a stern expression that makes him look like a peeved gladiator.

His gaze darts between Nova and me, as if catching two kids red-handed with a jar of cookies.

Yikes.

“You let her hold the sign?” he shouts, his voice muffled but clear enough for me to catch. His massive shoulders rise in protest, gloves raised as if he’s calling foul. “That wasn’t part of the deal!”

I squint, doing my best to read his lips and piece together his tone, though the indignation is practically radiating off him.

“She took it!” I shout back, throwing my hands up in mock surrender. “What was I supposed to do, fight her for it ?”

Nova leans into the exchange and adds her two cents. “I’m scrappy! She wouldn’t have stood a chance!”

He huffs, his lips twitching upward like he’s trying not to laugh. Then, with exaggerated deliberation, he tips his helmet slightly forward before skating backward with an effortless grace that belies his size, stick tapping once more as he heads toward the goalie box.

God damn he’s sexy…

“You’re drooling,” his sister teases.

I snap out of it, hand reflexively brushing the corner of my mouth—just to check, of course. “Am not. ”

“Don’t bother denying it.” Nova plops down into her seat. “I enjoy being the matchmaker for once.”

“For once?” I echo, raising a brow as I fold my arms and settle in beside her, gaze affixed to the ice. “Are you saying you usually scare people away?”

She gasps, clutching her chest in mock horror like I’ve just insulted her honor.

“ Excuse you, I’m a fantastic wing woman. But,” she leans in conspiratorially, lowering into me. “It’s rare that I get to sit back and watch the sparks fly all on their own. Gio has never actually chased a woman I told him about—he usually ignores my suggestions. You’re a first.”

Out on the ice? Her brother is impossible to ignore, all focus and precision as he fields practice shots from his teammates.

“Face-off in two minutes, three seconds,” Nova singsongs, glancing at the scoreboard. “Plenty of time for him to score a date.”

I shoot her a sidelong look. “Are you ever not meddling?”

“No. I’m his twin, his business is my business.”

My head shakes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She freezes for a second, then waves her hands frantically, like she’s trying to retract the words. “Wait, that’s not what I meant! I mean… his past girlfriends were awful. Total puck bunnies. You know the type—only interested in him for his money or the NHL connections. I didn’t mean I’m an impossible pain in the ass to deal with, I swear!”

I arch a brow, folding my arms as I lean back in my chair. “Sounds a little like you’re playing hockey mom.”

She groans, running a hand through her hair, clearly frustrated with herself. “God, no. I swear, I’m not that bad. I just... okay, maybe I’m a little overprotective, but only because I care, you know?”

I soften, the edge in my tone giving way to understanding. “I get it. You just want the best for him.”

“Exactly!” she exclaims, slapping her knees in mock victory, her expression lighting up. “The night I bumped into you at Five Alarm, you were so animated and fun, the first thing I thought to myself was: Gio has to meet this woman. ”

I smile at that, warmth creeping into my chest despite myself. She flatters me and I’m falling for it.

“And here I am.”

She grins, leaning back in her seat like she’s basking in her own matchmaking success. “And here we are.”

The weight of her words hangs between us for a moment, comfortable and light, and I can’t help but laugh softly even though she probably cannot hear it over the noise.

“You really don’t take a day off, do you?”

“Never,” she says proudly, chin tilting definitely, the beret on top her head tipping with the motion. “Besides. It’s working out pretty well so far, wouldn’t you say?”

Wow. She is so much like her brother.

“Ask me again in a week,” I tease, though I can feel my cheeks heat up.

“Oh, I will.” Nova nudges me with her elbow, pulling my attention back to her. “Okay, so important question: are you a vocal fan, or do you do the polite golf clap thing?”

“You already know the answer to that.” I roll my eyes. “You saw me in action, remember?”

Her response is a burst of laughter as the puck drops in the center of the ice and play begins.

The puck zips from stick to stick, the action quick and relentless. The tension in the air is palpable, every play met with gasps or cheers. Then, Gio intercepts a pass with a sharp flick of his stick, sending the puck flying toward a teammate. The crowd erupts as the play progresses, and Nova jumps to her feet, her voice cutting through the noise.

“Nice save, Gio!” she screams, jumping up from her seat.

The last thing I want is the television cameras finding me and putting me on the ne? —

Nova elbows me sharply, cutting off my internal monologue. “Do it.”

I blink, confused. “Do what?”

“Say something mean!” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s part of the deal, remember?”

I stare at her like she’s lost her mind. “I am not going to say mean things to him in front of his sister! We just talked about how you don’t want anyone dating him who’s an asshole!”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Not the same thing. This is heckling. It’s tradition. You’re doing it out of love.”

“No one else knows that!” I gesture to the surrounding crowd. “To them, I’m just some psycho yelling insults at their precious goalie.”

Whom I also totally love.

Not love, love—but you get what I’m saying.

He’s my favorite.

She laughs, tipping her head toward a guy a few rows down. “Look around you—half the crowd is pissed off at him for those losses.” She points at the man’s oversized foam finger, which is clearly not being used for supportive purposes. “See that guy? He hates Gio. His sign literally says ‘GIO EATS SHIT.’ ”

I squint at the crude letters painted on the obnoxiously large poster. “He’s a Nashville fan, Nova. Of course he wants Gio to eat shit.”

“Exactly!” she says triumphantly, throwing her hands in the air. “You’ll blend right in! Come on, get up.”

I stay firmly planted in my seat, crossing my arms. “This is peer pressure, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“This is the reason you’re here,” she counters, undeterred. “Do it.”

Before I can protest, she gives me a nudge, and somehow, against all better judgment, my ass rises out of my seat. The crowd roars around us as a near miss on the ice draws everyone’s attention.

Perfect— no one will notice me making a fool of myself .

I groan as she hands me the GET IT TOGETHER sign.

Take a deep breath.

Glance around nervously down at the ice. For a second, I wonder if he’s even aware of the crowd. Then, with a burst of courage—or insanity—I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “HEY, GIO! MY GRANDMOTHER HANDLES A PUCK BETTER THAN YOU!”

The words echo loud and clear, slicing through the cheers and whistles.

It feels as if everyone heard it.

On the ice, Gio’s head snaps up. Even with his helmet on, I can feel the 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 sure feels like 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 OR INVITE 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 the GIO EATS SHIT sign 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 is dying beside 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 with every 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.

“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 on fire since you started shouting at him. You’ve unlocked his passion. ”

“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.