Page 7

7

gio

S pace?

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 several Top Plays of the Week segments 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 titled Skates 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.”

“Good. You agree.” Danica clicks her tongue, the familiar sound of her keyboard clattering faintly in the background. I picture her sitting at her desk, glasses perched on her nose, fingers flying over her laptop as she plots my damage control. “ So this is what I was thinking—wait. You do know this woman, correct? She’s not some fan you decided to indulge?”

I shake my head, even though she can’t see it. “No, not a fan. She’s actually, uh, a neighbor.”

Sort of.

Danica goes silent for a moment, and I know that pause isn’t good. “How long have you known her?”

“Uh.” I do the mental math, from the time I sat my ass down on that barstool on the corner, to this very second. “About forty-nine hours?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she mutters under her breath.

“I said she’s kind of a neighbor!” I defend myself.

“You said she was a neighbor!”

“It’s the same thing!”

“Does she live in the same building?” Danica fires back before I can finish my protest. She doesn’t give me a chance to respond before barreling on. “What’s her occupation?”

I shrug, pulling open the fridge and staring blankly inside. “Don’t know.”

“You don’t know ?” Her disbelief is palpable through the phone, as if she isn’t listening to a single thing I’ve said. “Great. Okay. Fantastic. So, we’ll go with: She’s someone you’ve been seeing, and it’s not serious.”

“Yes. I see her with my eyes,” I joke, grabbing a bottle of water.

Danica groans. “Gio, I swear to God, if you keep making jokes?—”

“What do you want me to say?” I interrupt impatiently, leaning against the counter. “Should we lie and say she’s the love of my life and we’re planning our wedding for next summer?”

“That might actually help,” she mutters, typing.

I laugh. “Yeah, until they start following her to the grocery store and asking her how many kids we’re going to have.”

There’s a beat of silence, and for once, Danica doesn’t have a snappy comeback. “You’re right, that’s exactly what’s going to happen thanks to your impulsiveness.” There’s another pause. “That’s why we need to control the narrative before it controls you—or her.”

I rub the back of my neck, staring at the floor. This isn’t my first rodeo. Ever since I went pro, I’ve been stuck in this endless song and dance with the media—and I have the bad choices in women to thank for most of it.

Not this time. I will not let my past come back to haunt me.

“Fine,” I mutter. “What do you need me to do?”

“First, you’re going to text her and let her know what’s happening,” Danica dictates, her businesslike tone snapping into place. “Then, we’re going to draft a statement together. Something vague, but clear so we can all move on with our lives. Got it?”

“Got it,” I reply. “You’re the boss.”

I can hear Danica smile. “Thanks.”

She laughs, unbothered. Danica reminds me of a barracuda, but with glasses and adult braces. Ruthless and polished. The kind of person who smiles while she sinks her teeth into you.

“Look,” she says, her voice softening slightly. “I know this sucks, but if we play our cards right, this will all blow over in a few days. Just follow my lead.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, already pulling up my messages. “I’ve got it under control.”

“Good. And Gio?”

“What?”

“Try not to make it worse.”

I stare down at my phone as the call ends, the screen still lit with Danica’s contact photo—a stock image of a shark, which felt fitting when I saved her number. My thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating, as I debate how the hell I’m supposed to explain this to Austin. A girl I’ve only met in person once. And under a guise, no less.

I drop my phone onto the counter with a sigh, already dreading the conversation. If this situation isn’t awkward enough, I know my sister is bound to have an opinion about it. She always does. Honestly, I’m shocked she hasn’t already barged through my front door, armed with iced coffee and unsolicited advice, ready to insert herself into the mess.

Mess? Nah.

Not really. This isn’t a mess.

It’s just gossip.

Gossip is standard, part of the job. Lucky for me, I’m not usually the target—there are plenty of higher-profile players for the media to hound. Just so happens, though, that I’m single. Rich. Good-looking (I’m not going to argue with them on that point).

Toss in the fact that we’d lost three games in a row— then I mysteriously turn it around last night only after kissing the glass where she was standing?

Boom .

News.

It’s the perfect storm: a struggling team, a dramatic comeback, and a handsome bachelor “inspired” by a mystery woman. The media’s eating it up like it’s their last meal. And honestly? I can’t blame them. If I were in their shoes, I’d probably run with it too.

My ass is against the counter and I’m drumming my fingers as I think about Austin. What the hell am I supposed to say to her? What to say, what to say…

She’s a Baddies fan. Surely, she’s seen the headlines by now. If she’s even glanced at her phone today, she’s probably been bombarded with pictures, memes, and analysis dissecting every second of last night’s game.

I open our text thread, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. How do you even start this kind of conversation?

Gio: Mornin. Not sure if you start your day off with local sporting stats, bu t

I stop, deleting the message before I send it. Too casual. Too cheeky. She might not be amused if she has seen the news.

I try again.

Gio: You’ve probably seen the news…

I delete that too, groaning under my breath. Why is this so hard? I’m a grown man. A professional athlete. I can handle a text message.

Finally, I type:

Hey you—good morning. Not sure if you have seen the news but the media is having a field day with photos of us from last night. Wanna chat about it?

Austin: I was wondering when you were going to reach out ha ha. I wasn’t about to start whining about it first.

Gio: I just ended a call with my publicist—she said to sit tight. She’s going to issue a statement and then we’re going to let the story die down.

Austin: It’s that simple?

No, not always. But fingers crossed…

Gio: Usually? Should blow over in a day or two as long as I don’t do more stupid shit.

Austin: What are our options? I mean, obviously I’m not famous but it’s not like my face was blurred out. I’m so visible it’s horrifying! I look SO FUGLY lol

Gio: What’s fugly??

Austin: Fucking ugly.

Gio: Oh LOL. Did not know that, and no you do not.

Austin: Oh, I do. It’s a fact. I’ve looked at the photos. The camera caught me mid-blink, and my mouth was hanging open like I’m getting ready to give a blow job.

I ignore that last comment—though I’m dying to respond to it.

Gio: I don’t know what pictures you’re looking at, but the ones I’ve seen you look fine. BETTER than fine.

Adorable. Cute. Fun.

Austin: Lies. But thank you for saying so.

Gio: Not lies. Just facts.

Austin: Yeah, well, tell that to the people on Twitter. I made the mistake of reading the comments, and now I’m emotionally scarred for life.

Gio: Rule number one: NEVER READ THE COMMENTS. Rookie mistake.

Austin: I’m so seriously butt-hurt right now and never want to leave my house. One woman said I look like your “dorky cousin” who is so far beneath you it’s laughable.

Gio: My dorky cousin? Wow. Harsh.

Austin: Like, not just a cousin. The DORKY one.

Gio: First of all, I don’t even have a dorky cousin. I have three cousins total and all of them are male.

Austin: That’s what you’re focusing on? The cousin part—not the part where I’m so far beneath you?? Shit.

Gio: Yes, Yes, because the cousin thing is ridiculous. You’re not “beneath” anyone. Especially not me.

At least not yet…

Austin: You say that, but Twitter begs to differ.

Gio: STAY OFF TWITTER. It thinks the moon landing was fake and pineapple on pizza is a crime. Not a reliable source.

Austin: You’re really defending pineapple on pizza at a time like this?

Gio: I’m just saying, Twitter’s full of bad takes!!!! FOCUS.

Austin: I mean, pineapple pizza is a crime against humanity but whatever….

Gio: I regret nothing. You’re awesome, Twitter is trash, and I will die on this hill. WE RIDE AT DAWN.

Austin: Are you going to come hide out with me now? Is that the next step?

Gio: Er. I doubt we have to hide out…

Austin: I mean. It sounds fun though, doesn’t it?

Gio: Maybe we meet at Five Alarm and plan our course of action.

Austin: Hmm. I guess I could eat.

Austin: Is your sister coming?

Gio: Fuck no!

Two hours later I’m walking into the bar.

She’s standing at the counter, waiting for someone—waiting for me—and for the second time this week, I stroll into an establishment I’ve only set foot in once in the three years I’ve lived at the end of the block. The place is busy, a low hum of conversations blending with the faint sound of the playlist over the speakers.

It’s dimly lit; the kind of place where you don’t come to be seen.

You come for privacy. Good drinks.

Better food.

I observe her a few moments before walking over.

Austin is facing the counter, back to most of the room, chatting with the same bartender that was here the other night. Her posture is relaxed—but I notice the subtle shift of her weight, the way her hand fidgets slightly against the counter.

She’s nervous? Or maybe I’m imagining it.

She shifts her weight again, glancing over her shoulder like she knows I’m here. Her face is calm, but I catch a flicker of something in her expression—relief? Annoyance? Maybe both. Her lips curve into a faint smile, enough to let me know she’s spotted me.

I take a breath and start walking toward her, weaving between tables and barstools. With every step, I tell myself to play it cool, to act like I’m not ridiculously aware of how every guy in this bar is probably noticing her too.

By the time I reach her, she’s turned fully to face me, her hand tucked into the pocket of her jacket.

“Hey you.” She greets me with a big smile. “Man of the hour has arrived.”

“You forgot to roll out the red carpet.” I smirk.

She tilts her head slightly, glancing up at me. “You seem surprisingly calm for someone whose face is all over the internet right now.”

“I am,” I say with a shrug. “You get used to it.”

“That sucks.” Her eyebrows raise slightly, glancing up at me again, smile a tad snarky. “I didn’t realize how tall you are.”

“Six four,” I inform her, feeling the corners of my own mouth twitch as I watch her process the new information.

“Well.” Austin clears her throat. “I’m not used to looking this far up. Congratulations on making me feel short.”

She is short, but I don’t hate it .

In fact, there’s something oddly endearing about the way she has to tilt her head to look up at me.

“Booth okay?” I ask, glancing down at her.

“Works for me,” she says with a small shrug, falling into step beside me as we follow the hostess toward the back of the bar.

I can feel the weight of her gaze as we walk, like she’s sizing me up in more ways than one. Normally, that kind of scrutiny would bother me, but with Austin, it doesn’t. It’s not judgment—it’s curiosity. Like she’s trying to figure out what makes me tick.

Not that there’s much to figure out.

Honestly? I’m a pretty simple guy.

Ha ha.

Still, I can’t help but wonder what she sees when she looks at me like that. Does she see the guy plastered all over the internet right now? The guy who can’t seem to avoid turning his personal life into a public spectacle?

Or does she see something else—something quieter, something closer to the person I used to be before all of this?

Before I can spiral into overthinking everything, we reach the booth and I step aside to let Austin choose which side to slide in first, eyes sliding down her backside as she scoots in.

Nice ass.

She catches me looking, but doesn’t comment; just arches a brow as if she knows exactly what I was thinking .

We settle in. Remove our coats.

“Alright,” she says, flipping the menu open like we’re not here to strategize our way out of a PR nightmare. “What’s the plan?”

I lean back in the booth, crossing my arms as I study her, in no hurry at all. “Plan for what?”

Her eyes widen as she lowers the menu enough to shoot me a pointed look.

“Maybe the fact that your face—and mine, by association—is currently trending on every social media platform? Is this us laying low?” She lifts the menu again, her eyes scanning as she chatters on. “By the way, I love the part in your press release where you describe me as a ‘family friend.’ So thoughtful.”

Oh, yeah.

That part .

“I didn’t write it—I only approved it,” I mumble, leaning back in the booth. “Mostly.” I sigh. “Okay fine I didn’t actually read it ‘coz I trust Danica to do her job.”

Her head bobs up and down in exaggerated agreement, her expression impossible to read behind the menu.

“Nothing screams ‘family friend’ like a guy smushing his face against the glass for a woman he’s supposedly not interested in.”

I scratch the back of my neck, trying to come up with a rebuttal that doesn’t sound like total bullshit.

“We didn’t have a ton of options—I told Danica we were neighbors, and you’ve met my sister, so…” I trail off, watching for her reaction.

“Uh-huh,” she says without looking up, focused on finding something to eat.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Look, the press needed something—something that wouldn’t make your life harder.”

She finally sets the menu down, her gaze locking onto mine with the kind of intensity that makes me sit up straighter .

“And you think calling me a ‘family friend’ makes my life easier?”

“Would you have preferred ‘mystery woman’?” I counter, raising a brow.

Her face scrunches up in mock disgust. “Ew, that’s horrid. Like something they’d say fifty years ago, back when people still wrote letters instead and didn’t have the internet.”

I laugh, relieved the mood is lightening. “Exactly. I was doing you a favor.”

“Oh, yeah. Huge favor,” she snorts dryly, picking up her glass of water. “What on Earth would I do without you?”

“Probably live a much quieter life,” I admit with a grin.

“Eh. I don’t mind the excitement. My life is pretty boring.”

I lean forward, resting my arms on the table. “Alright, enlighten me. What is it you do, anyway? Danica was asking.”

“Oh, Danica wants to know, does she?”

“Hey, I’m just the messenger,” I reply, raising my hands in mock defense. “You’ve got her all curious. She’s trying to figure out if you’re a threat to my public image or, you know, just a regular person.”

Austin rolls her eyes, her lips quirking in amusement. “Wow. A threat to your public image. Little me?”

Yes, little you .

“Are you secretly plotting my downfall, or do you have a boring day job like the rest of us mortals?”

She tilts her head, pretending to think. “Let’s see. I do own a black hoodie and sunglasses, which are basically prerequisites for an evil mastermind. But no—no secret plotting. Sorry to disappoint.”

I motion impatiently for her to go on. “And when you’re not preparing for world domination?”

“I’m a professor.”

I pause.

Blink.

Blink at her some more. “What? ”

She is so full of shit—there is no way.

She’s not old enough to be a professor.

“You’re fucking kidding,” I blurt out leaning forward as if that will somehow make her confession make more sense. “Right? Please tell me you’re joking.”

She is enjoying my confusion. “Why would I joke about that?”

I study her, trying to reconcile the quick-witted woman sitting across from me with the image of a professor.

Impossible.

“You’re not old enough to be a professor.”

“Okay. Rude ,” she says, though her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh.

“No, I mean you look—” I stop, realizing this is a minefield I’m about to step into. “You don’t look old enough for that job. What do you teach, anyway?”

“For your information, I teach sociology. At a university. With real adults.” Her chin tilts and her expression smug. “You can google it if you’d like. I’ll wait.”

My brain cannot compute.

“Like… college sociology?” I continue to sound stupid, unable to wrap my brain around this.

“Yes. Like—the college here. It’s a university, technically.” Austin crosses her arms. “Monday and Wednesdays at 9 a.m. to 11:30. Tuesday and Thursdays at 1. My office hours are on Fridays at 2. I even have a nameplate on my door.”

The only university I know of is State, about a thirty-minute drive out of the city. It’s huge—twenty-five thousand students, nationally ranked programs, and a football team they televise like it’s the Super Bowl.

A big fucking school.

I lean back, still trying to wrap my head around it. “This is blowing my mind right now.” I feel my face melting off as I squint across the table at her. “How old are you?”

She laughs again. “Twenty-nine. How old are you? ”

“Twenty-six,” I say automatically, still stuck on the fact that she’s twenty-nine and a professor.

“Aw, you’re a baby,” she teases, resting her chin in her hand, fluttering her lashes at me.

I glare at her, though I can’t help but grin. “You don’t get to call

me a baby when you’ve not even cracked thirty.”

“But it’s still older than you, and I’m your elder, so show some respect.”

I find her smart mouth so…

Goddamn sexy.

Sexier now that I know her sharp tongue comes equipped with an even sharper brain. She’s confident, quick, and completely unapologetic about it. It’s a lethal combination—one I wasn’t prepared for when I walked into this bar.

Inside my pants, my dick twitches.

Of course, it does.

Because apparently, my body has zero chill when it comes to her.

I shift slightly in my seat, forcing myself to focus on something else—anything else. But it’s hard when she’s sitting across from me, her eyes daring me to keep up with her.

Her lips are moving but I’m no longer listening to a word she’s saying.

Blah blah “… my students love me, I’ll have you know .”

Oh I bet they fucking do.

My gaze dips to her mouth as she talks, the curve of her lips pulling me in. Glossy. Full. Pale pink tongue darting out to lick them. Every word out of her mouth is designed to knock me off balance and it’s working…

“ Are you even listening to me ?” she asks suddenly, chin tilting as her voice cuts through the fog in my brain.

“What? Yeah, of course. Your students love you.”

She narrows her eyes. Doesn’t believe me. “Uh-huh. What else did I say? ”

“Uh…” I scramble, frantically replaying the last ten seconds until I come up with, “Something about office hours.”

Her lips press together as she tries to hold back a laugh. “All I have to say is, wow. ”

“In my defense, as soon as you said professor, I started objectifying you.”

Austin’s eyes widen.

“You’ve gotta admit,” I continue. “It’s not every day a guy meets someone as gorgeous as you and finds out she’s brilliant.”

Her cheeks flush, a deep pink that she tries to hide by dipping her chin and brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m not brilliant,” she mutters, though her lips are curving into a reluctant smile.

“You definitely are,” I counter, gaze fixed on her. She can’t convince me otherwise. “Brilliant, beautiful, and apparently modest.”

Which is more than I can say for myself.

She lets out a soft laugh, finally looking up at me, her eyes narrowing. “You’re ridiculous.”

Maybe.

“Can we change the subject?” she asks, the blush still lingering on her cheeks.

Before I can respond, a voice interrupts from behind me. “ Oh my God, are you Gio Montagalo?”

I glance over my shoulder, already bracing myself. A guy in his early twenties, wearing a Baddies hoodie and a baseball cap, is standing a few feet away, staring at me like he’s just won the lottery.

“Yup,” I say, offering a polite smile. “That’s me.”

“No fucking way!” he says, his voice rising in excitement. He pulls out his phone, fumbling with it as he steps closer. “Holy shit, man—I’m such a huge fan. Can I, uh, get an autograph or something? ”

“Sure,” I say, reaching for the napkin on the table. “You got a pen?”

The guy practically throws one at me, and I scribble my name across the napkin before handing it back.

“Thanks, man,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. Then his gaze shifts to Austin, and his eyebrows shoot up. “Wait—is this her?”

“Her who?” Austin joins the conversation, glancing around to discover who the her is though we all know what he’s referring to. He’s clearly seen the news.

“You know,” the guy says, snapping his fingers and loudly whispering, “The girl from last night’s game. Holy balls, dude—the story is true. I thought it was a load of crap.”

“Because they usually are loads of crap,” I tell him, keeping my tone casual. Flippant. “Don’t believe everything you see on the internet.”

He blinks, taken off guard by my rebuttal.

“Right. Totally. But, uh…” His gaze darts to Austin again, and the curiosity is practically radiating off him. “So, are you two?—”

“Nope,” I cut him off before he can finish that sentence. “She’s actually my cousin. My very dorky cousin who loves pineapple pizza and thinks the moon landing was fake.”

Austin’s head snaps toward me so fast, I’m surprised she doesn’t pull something. Her jaw drops, her eyes wide with disbelief.

The guy’s face drops into a mask of confusion.

“Wait… seriously? ”

“Absolutely,” I say with a completely straight face, leaning back in the booth. “Loves frat parties at the college.”

Austin narrows her eyes at me, clearly unimpressed. Then she turns to the guy with an exaggeratedly sweet smile. “Actually, it’s the opposite. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m in the process of becoming a nun. I’ve been considering a vow of chastity lately. A lot lately. Real recent. ”

The guy blinks, his brain clearly short-circuiting as he processes her words, the same way my brain did learning she’s a prof.

“A nun?”

“Yup,” she says, making the sign of the cross on her chest. “Just me, my prayer beads, and a whole lot of spiritual reflection.”

I bite back a laugh, folding my arms across my chest as I watch her babble with a straight face.

“Looks great in black and white, by the way,” I add, unable to resist. “Super sexy.”

Austin’s head snaps toward me, and the glare she shoots me is so sharp, I almost flinch.

Almost.

“Thank you for your input, cousin ,” she says through gritted teeth, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Oh shit.

That’s right.

I just told him we’re cousins and three seconds later I called her sexy.

Whoops.

The guy stares at us for a moment longer before shaking his head.

“Man, you guys are wild.” He takes a step back, looking like he’s ready to escape. “Anyway, good luck with, uh, the nun thing.”

“Bless you my child,” Austin says sweetly, her expression pure innocence—but as soon as he’s out of earshot, she turns back to me, her eyes blazing. “Super sexy ? Really ? You’re terrible at ad-libbing.”

I shrug, grinning unapologetically. “I panicked.”

“No shit you panicked .” She crosses her arms and glares at me like I’ve committed some kind of cardinal sin. “What if that guy goes to the press and tells him you’re dating your cousin? ”

I laugh, gesturing for the server. Order two beers when she takes our order—and a pineapple pizza.