Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I didn’t mean to roast Gio Montagalo, goalie and crown jewel of The Houston Baddies hockey team. Honestly, I was screaming at the TV in a sports bar like any self-respecting sports junkie does when their team is on a losing streak! So when his twin sister sidles up on the stool beside me, laughing at my commentary, I figured I’d made a fan, too. What I didn’t expect? For her brother—the guy I called “a flashy ice peacock with the reflexes of a sloth”—to hear about it.
Yikes. What were the odds?!
Next thing I know, Gio is in my DMs with a challenge: “Hold up a sassy sign at my game and hit me with your best shot. Roast me in front of everyone.” For him, it’s fun. For me, it’s humiliating. But I did it. Glitter included. And because the universe thrives on chaos, the Baddies won.
Now Gio thinks I’m his good luck charm, begging me to show up with more signs. He also wants to see me—off the ice.
What does a hot, hockey hunk want with a bookish girlie like me?
I try to keep my distance. Mostly.
Soon, Gio is showing up at my job for swoony kisses and trying to charm my dog—also named Gio—and failing because my dog hates him at first sight. I wonder if this whole “lucky charm” thing has less to do with hockey and more to do with the overwhelming, undeniable pull I feel toward him. Or maybe it’s fate’s way of showing me that sometimes, the guy you roast on national TV can be the one you accidentally fall for.
Fast-paced and hilarious, Hit Me With Your Best Shot is full of electric chemistry—and tons of spice. Austin Adam's life just went from shouting at the TV screen—to becoming part of the show
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
austin
They thought I was a nice, nerdy, bookish girl—
then hockey season started…
If you would’ve told me I’d have to miss going to this hockey game, I would’ve laughed/cried in your face.
Seriously.
Hockey isn’t just a sport to me—it’s a religion.
The thing you should know about me (because we’re still strangers, you and I) is that I’m a Super Fan.
Capital S, capital F.
I’m talking: custom jerseys, face paint, cardboard signs to hold up—the whole nine yards.
It must be genetic because my dad? He loved hockey, too. And since he’s up in heaven looking down on me, watching makes it feel like he’s still here. So, yeah.
I’ll probably never stop loving the game.
When Dad passed, I was gifted his season passes to the Houston Baddies and I haven’t missed a game since.
Until tonight.
Missing the game feels sacrilegious somehow; like the universe is playing a cruel trick on me. But here I am, out of the arena, with my heart in the rink, watching the game from a screen instead of my usual seat.
But hey, I did a good thing, right?
Letting my friend Paul—also a die-hard fan—use the seats. He’s planning to propose to his boyfriend during the third period, and it’s going to be on the freaking Jumbotron.
Super romantic.
Super public.
So extra—exactly like Paul and Emilio.
Giving him the seats felt like the perfect engagement gift. If missing the game means they’ll have a night to remember, it’s worth it.
So here I am, at a bar called Five Alarm near my condo, watching from a plasma screen like a mere mortal instead of the superfan I am.
Love trumps hockey.
Sometimes.
“Come on!” I shout at the wall of monitors in front of me. “Let’s go!”
The Baddies aren’t going to win the way they’re playing tonight.
Like complete shit.
A groan escapes me as one of the forwards fumbles a pass, turning over the puck. Again.
“It’s like they’ve forgotten they’re on ice!” I complain to no one in particular, throwing my hands in the air. A couple of heads turn my way from the far end of the bar, but I’m not bothered.
If I can’t be in the arena, I’ll be the loudest Baddie’s fan this place has ever seen, my eyes never leaving the television set.
And just like that, they miss another goal.
How hard is it to shoot the puck into the net?
"You have got to be kidding me!” I practically levitate off the stool in frustration, smacking at the bar top as I screech, “Come on!”
The handsome bartender chuckles as he wipes down the counter.
“Rough night?”
“You could say that,” I huff, crossing my arms. “I should be there. You do one nice deed for a friend and look where it lands you.”
I wave a hand at the screen, clearly unimpressed by my team’s lackluster performance.
“Tell me how you really feel.” He grins, sliding another drink my way.
"Maybe they’re losing because I’m not there," I theorize, narrowing my eyes as if I could somehow will the team to score by force of disappointment.
The bartender snorts. "For sure. I’m sure you’re the missing piece."
“I’m serious!” I exclaim, leaning forward. “I haven’t missed a game in years, and now this? There is no such thing as a coincidence.”
He raises an eyebrow. “They play better when you’re screaming from the stands?”
“Exactly!” I’m oddly validated by his sentiment. “My energy fuels them. They need me. And I’m stuck here, drinking this sad little beer while Paul is out there making romantic history on the Jumbotron.”
Bastard.
"Paul?” The bartender looks intrigued, wiping down another glass and lingering nearby. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“My boyfriend?” I snort. Please. “No—platonic friends from elementary school.”
He stops wiping and leans forward. “And you’re only here because you let him have your seats.”
I nod, sipping the beer. “Indeed.”
“So you’re a giver?”
Eh?
Is that some sort of sexual innuendo or is he genuinely asking if I’m a kind person?
“Uh. Sure,” I reply cautiously, giving him a half-smile, unsure where this is going. I don’t love it when guys make snarky comments—it makes me uneasy and off-kilter.
My eyes flicker back to the monitor and I realize I missed the last few minutes of the game because of the bartender's chatter.
Damn.
“Shit, what did I miss?” I ask, sitting up straighter, but the bartender grins wider as if pleased he was a distraction.
“You sure are cute when you’re riled up.”
I ignore him as I fixate back on the screen, trying to catch up on the action. I need him to stop talking to me and go away—not flirt.
He is not my type.
I hope he doesn’t try and pass me his phone number because there’s another number I’m obsessed with, and player thirty, the goalie, who is letting one shot after another slide right through his legs like a rookie on open skate night.
Houston is struggling and it’s getting harder to stay calm.
"Block it, number thirty! Block it!" I shout, voice escalating. "It’s called being a goalie! Maybe try it sometime!"