Page 5

5

austin

H oly.

Crap.

These seats. Are. Ah- mazing.

Armed with a sign that says BETTER LUCK THIS TIME, GIO —and one of my best friends, Dolly—the arena is buzzing.

“These seats,” I say, sinking into the plush cushion of my chair, “are the most incredible thing to ever happen to me.”

Dolly rolls her eyes, her lips curling into a smirk as she unwraps a pretzel. “I mean, other than me, obviously.”

“Obviously,” I echo, not even bothering to argue.

“You know,” she says, waving her pretzel at the ice, “if you scream loud enough, Gio might actually notice your sign. Then again, I doubt he’ll be able to read it with how fast you’ll be waving it.”

I laugh, holding up the bright blue poster board for emphasis.

“That’s the plan.” I lift it from the spot where I’ve tucked it. “I want him to know the fans haven’t forgotten about his last game. Better luck this time, buddy!” I shout, lifting it.

Bright yellow paper.

Bold lettering .

Blue glitter.

Team colors.

There isn’t a chance Montagalo will miss this sign.

Dolly snickers as I wave it over my head like a maniac, even though the players haven’t taken the ice yet.

“You’re going to throw out your shoulder before the game even starts,” she says, biting into her pretzel.

“Worth it,” I say, lowering it cause she’s right; my arm is beginning to hurt and I need to save my energy. The team will be out soon— after the lights dim and the Jumbotron explodes with graphics and loud music, of course.

It’s all part of the show, and I am HERE FOR IT!

Hell yeah!

The pregame video begins to play; the highlight reel illuminates the arena, displaying Houston’s best plays from the season. Every goal, every hat trick, every save—it’s a montage designed to rile us up, and it works.

The crowd’s energy builds with every second, and I can feel the vibration of their cheers in my chest.

The lights go out.

Swirling blue and yellow spotlights sweep across the ice.

Smoke machines crank out thick billowing clouds along the player tunnel, and the first strains of Houston’s anthem blare through the speakers.

Dolly jumps beside me, clutching my arm as she screams along with the crowd and I grip my sign tightly as the announcer’s voice booms through the arena.

“Ladies adies and gentlemen… entleman ,” the announcer's voice booms out an echo. “Please stand and and . For your Houston ouston. Baddiessss!”

The team bursts onto the ice, one by one, to thunderous applause and my eyes seek out Montagalo. He skates out last—the goalie always does—name echoing through the arena as the crowd roars and a few boos.

Yikes .

He skates in circles around the rink, his movements smooth and confident, and I tremble, excited, as I clutch this ridiculous sign.

Waiting.

“Think he sees me?”

“Not yet.” Dolly squints in his direction, chewing on her snack. “But give it time. You’re hard to miss with that obnoxious sign.”

I laugh, nudging her. “You’re jealous you didn’t make one.”

“Not jealous,” she says, holding up her pretzel like it’s the trophy of the night. “I know my priorities.”

Pucks fly in every direction as they pass, shoot, and slap them against the boards. The arena buzzes with anticipation, but my eyes are glued to one person—Montagalo.

He skates slowly. Deliberately.

Does laps around his crease, stretching and settling into his rhythm.

Every few laps, he veers out, circling past the blue line before coasting back, movements smooth, confident, and mesmerizing.

I sit frozen, gripping the sign in my fingers, holding my breath every time he gets closer to the place where we’re sitting.

Closer to the glass.

Close enough to…

“Relax.” Dolly laughs, nudging me with her elbow. “He’s some dude on skates.”

He’s not just a dude on skates.

My heart thuds in my chest as I lean forward, gripping the edge of my seat.

Literally on the edge of my seat.

I stand.

Dolly grabs the sign and thrusts it forward, glitter catching beneath the lights.

BETTER LUCK THIS TIME.

It beckons him.

On his next lap, he slows as he approaches our section, gloved hand pushing at his helmet and I swear he’s looking right at me.

My breath catches. For a moment—the briefest of moments—I think I’m imagining it. But then…he coasts closer still…stopping inside the blue line, and lifts his mask.

Oh my God.

It’s him .

I’m literally frozen, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. How did I not piece it together before? The easy smile, the confident swagger—it all makes sense now.

The realization hits me like a slapshot to the chest.

I insulted him. I told him he shit the bed.

That he was going through it.

To his face .

I mean—not to his face—I didn’t know at the time it was him, but you get what I’m saying!

My heart pounds as memories of that night at the bar flood back—the teasing remarks, the sarcastic comments, the way I scoffed at his “generous” offer of tickets because I didn’t think he’d follow through.

Oh, he followed through all right.

“I’m going to puke.”

I roasted him and he gave me the tickets anyway.

Oh he’s grinning at me alright, coming to a stop in front of our seats.

“Hey.” I see him mouth. “You made the sign.”

He points to it with his gloved hand and I want to die.

I…

I…

My mouth drops open and I watch as he leans forward, pursing his lips and presses them against the glass in a wet kiss.

Did he—did he just kiss it ?

Yes he did.

There are lip prints to prove it.

The roar of the crowd around us barely registers because all I can focus on is him. The smirk as he winks, his gloved hand resting on the edge of the boards like this is the most normal, natural thing to do.

As if we were the only people here.

Dolly grabs my arm, shaking me. “Oh my God! Did that just happen? Did he seriously just do that?”

“I—” Words fail me . My mouth opens and closes like I’m a fish, brain scrambling to process what the hell happened.

I can’t move.

Can’t breathe.

All I can do is sit there, holding this ridiculous glitter-covered sign, while Gio Montagalo—the man I roasted within an inch of his life—stares me down like I’m the most entertaining thing he’s seen all night.

And maybe it is.

I’m shook.

In shock .

I’m…

As Gio skates away, blending back into the flow of warm-ups, I finally let out the breath. My heart is pounding, my grip on the glitter-covered sign so tight it’s a wonder I haven’t crushed it yet.

I let it fall to the ground.

Dolly nudges me hard enough to jolt me back to reality. “Okay, seriously. What the hell was that? What on earth is going on?”

I shake my head, still staring at the ice like it’s going to give me answers.

“I have no idea.” Actually, that is not true. “That’s the guy who gave me the tickets.”

“Him?” Dolly’s brow is furrowed, confused. I’d told her about our exchange at the bar but clearly there are details neither of us could have predicted.

“Dolly.” I put my hand on her arm. “The horrible things I said to that man. What’s the protocol for apologizing to the professional athlete you were talking shit about?” My groan is loud enough for her to hear. “Look at him! He’s down there skating laps like it’s no big deal, and I’m over here contemplating faking my own death.”

“Don’t you dare .” Dolly laughs. “This is amazing. You insulted the star goalie of the Baddies and not only does he not hate you, but he’s out here putting on a show for you. It’s like—foreplay.”

Foreplay.

Sounds fucked up.

“Do not call it that.”

She grins, unbothered. “What else would you call it? That man is flirting , and you’re sitting here having a crisis .”

“I am having a crisis!” I hiss, gesturing toward the ice. “I can’t handle this! It’s too much! I’m so embarrassed, Dolly. I roasted the man—like, I was so freaking rude—and instead of being offended like a normal human he’s out here acting like I’m the most fascinating person in the room!”

Who does that!?

Is this his sick way of getting revenge?

“Guys eat that up,” she says matter-of-factly. “Maybe he’s into bitchy women.”

“I didn’t say I was being a bitch,” I protest. “I was merely lobbing insults at him.”

“Oh, is that different?” She smirks, motioning to the concession guy with the oversized tote of beers. “You clearly need a drink.”

“I don’t want a beer! I’m too mortified,” I counter, burying my face in my hands. “I’m going to crawl under these seats and live there forever. Tell my family I love them.”

“Stop being so dramatic.” Dolly rolls her eyes and grabs my wrists, pulling my hands away from my face. “You’re going to sit right here, enjoy this game, and figure out what you’re going to say to him after.”

I blink at her, panic rising in my chest. “After? ”

“Yes, after,” she says firmly. “You think he’s not going to find you?”

God, I hope not.

“Please.” Dolly snorts, taking two beers from the concession guy, handing me one despite my protests. “You’re so hopeless. The man kissed you in front of an entire arena.”

“He did not kiss me,” I mutter, clutching the beer in my lap. “He kissed the glass.”

“Same thing,” she says, sipping the foam from the blue cup. “You’re the one he was looking at. Everyone saw it. He’s putting on a show. So cute.”

The puck drops, and the game begins in a blur of movement and sound. The Baddies are fast, aggressive, and relentless, immediately taking control of the puck and charging down the ice. The crowd erupts as one of their forwards sends a slapshot flying toward the net, only to be deflected by the opposing goalie.

I clutch the edge of my seat, my eyes darting to Gio as he skates to his crease, effortlessly blocking a shot from the blue line. The sound of the puck ricocheting off his pads echoes through the arena, and I can’t help the way my stomach flips.

He’s completely in his element, sharp and focused, moving like he’s choreographed every second of this game.

“You should see your face right now.” My friend chuckles, nudging me.

“Please stop talking.”

But she’s not wrong.

My eyes are glued to him, drawn to the way he moves with such precision, the way he commands his space on the ice. It’s infuriating how good he is—at hockey, at smirking, at making me question every life choice that brought me here tonight.

Houston scores halfway through the first period, and the arena erupts in cheers. Dolly jumps to her feet, screaming, while I clap politely, my heart racing for an entirely different reason. Gio skates toward the bench for the line change, but not before glancing toward our section.

It’s brief, almost imperceptible—but enough to make me grip my beer tighter and my lower parts tingle.

“Did you see that?” Dolly announces to everyone sitting around us. “He’s looking at you!”

“You’re imagining things,” I mumble, taking a sip of my beer to hide my face.

Shit.

I’m smiling—like a damn fool, too!

Ugh!

“Imagining it my ass—he’s not even being subtle about it.”

I roll my eyes, desperate to hide the blush creeping up my neck. “He’s scanning the crowd. They always do that; it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Gio freaking Montagalo,” Dolly repeats, shaking her head like she’s witnessing a miracle. “Goddamn, I’m jealous. If a man like that looked at me the way he’s looking at you, I’d be planning the wedding.”

Before I can reply, the Baddies light up the scoreboard again and the arena explodes with noise.

Dolly jumps up, screaming and clapping, while I try to focus on anything other than the six-foot-four goalie who’s been living rent-free in my head since the second I saw him sitting at the bar on my corner.

Tonight Gio is sharp and unrelenting, blocking every shot being blasted his way, and the crowd is

Eating.

It.

Up.

“See? Just doin’ his job,” I say, gesturing toward him. “Nothing to be jealous of.”

Dolly whirls around to face me, her grin so wide it could rival the arena lights.

“Nothing to be jealous of? Are you blind? The man is out there single-handedly shutting down the other team, and I swear he keeps checking to make sure you’re still watching.”

I had noticed that, but I’m not about to admit it.

“He is not,” I argue, crossing my arms. “He’s literally focused on the puck. You know, like a professional .”

Dolly snickers, leaning closer. “Oh, sweetie, the only thing he’s more focused on than that puck is you. I mean, look at him! He’s putting on a clinic while you sit here pretending your stomach isn’t doing flips.”

“It’s not doing flips,” I say, immediately betraying myself with a deep breath to calm the chaos in my chest. “It’s nerves. And the beer—you know what it does to me.”

Lies.

All lies.

Despite my best efforts to play it cool, I can’t help but let my eyes trail after him, drawn to the precision in every movement.

The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the period, and the players begin their slow glide toward the benches. The crowd cheers and claps, a sea of energy that doesn’t let up for a second.

“Last chance to admit you’re into him before he comes over here and proves me right.”

“He’s not coming over,” I say, my voice firm but my resolve shaky.

“Why would he? He has a game to play.”

Dolly grins, a knowing glint in her eye. “Oh, honey. He’s playing a different game now.”

She shrugs, unconvinced. “Suit yourself. But I’m telling you right now—if he skates over again, I’m taking a video. The internet deserves to see this.”

I glare at her, but the intermission show starting on the ice pulls her attention away before I can argue.

For a moment, I let myself relax, the noise and lights of the arena dulling the chaos in my head. But it doesn’t last long. Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about him .

I am a nobody.

With a smart mouth.

There is no way I’m ever going to see him again.

That thought should be comforting—it really should—but instead, it twists in my chest, leaving me feeling hollow as young kids in Baddies jerseys race oversized, inflatable pucks toward the goal while the crowd roots for them.

It’s adorable, really, but it does nothing to settle the storm in my head.

But just like that, the ice clears and players start filing back onto the ice. The fans roar, the energy climbing higher and higher, and for a split second, I let myself get swept up in it. Cheer along with them.

Houston is up by one, and the second period promises to be as chaotic as the first.

And then he skates out.

Moves with purpose, every motion fluid and precise, and then—he looks directly at me. Not toward the crowd.

Not at our section.

At me .

Gio Montagalo is not just playing hockey tonight.

He’s playing me .