Page 43 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

He likes me.

Likes me likes me.

Never in a million years would you have been able to say to me, “Austin Adams—in one week, Gio Montagalo, your favorite hockey goalie—is going to give you tickets to his hockey game and chase you down at your office because he wants to date you.”

I would have bet money on it.

A ton of money.

The idea is so far-fetched that even now—with him sitting right in front of me—I have trouble wrapping my head around it.

And yet…

Here he is. In the flesh.

“You’re staring,” Gio says, stating a fact.

“I’m not,” I lie, shaking my head as I force myself to look at the papers on my desk. I shuffle them to avert my gaze and give my hands something to do.

“It’s okay. I get it, this is a lot to take in.” He sighs so long and loud as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Trust me, I’m struggling with it too.”

Say what now?

I glance up, narrowing my eyes. “Struggling with what?”

“This. Us.”

Us.

The word hangs in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, I’m sure I misheard him.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve dated anyone,” he continues, completely oblivious to the mini heart attack he’s just caused inside my body. “And honestly, I didn’t think I’d ever get back into it, you know?”

“No,” I say quickly, my voice sharp as I sit up straighter. “I don’t know. There is no ‘us.’”

Gio tilts his head. “Not yet.”

He sounds so convinced. So sure.

“Gio.” His name on my lips causes me to pause, the weightof it heavy in the air. Suddenly, my best friend’s voice pops into my head, loud and clear, like some kind of guardian angel.

“Do not tell him there is no us. What the hell are you doing? You’re going to turn this man down? Why? YOU ARE SINGLE. We literally talked about dating last week! You said you were lonely! You said you wanted a steady lay and didn’t want to sleep around! You said you wanted a boyfriend! And HERE HE IS! And he’s famous, and hot, and funny! Do not shove this man out of your office.”

My inner monologue spirals, her words playing on a loop like a broken record.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

He’s hot. And famous.

Two things that donotadd up in my brain.

I cross my arms tighter over my chest, trying to ground myself in the present moment, but Gio doesn’t miss a beat. He leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk, his gaze steady and unwavering.

“You’re overthinking it,” he says, his tone soft but sure, like he’s reading my mind.

“I amnotoverthinking it,” I reply, though the crack in my voice betrays me. Overthinking it is what I do best. In fact, as a smile tugs at his lips, my eyes go to the small, framed sign on my wall. “Overthink it later.”

How ironic.

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