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)
Gio: No. LOL. It’s been a long time since I tried to hit on someone.
Austin: Oh REALLY? And why is that? Enlighten me.
Gio: My relationship with my sister sometimes suffers—I’ve chosen the wrong women in the past. Or they’ve chosen me I should say. And I told myself I wouldn’t date women who see dollar signs when they look at me…
Gio: Hence, it’s been a long fucking time since I’ve dated.
Austin: I… am so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I…
Gio: There’s a reason I was at the bar—that wasn’t a coincidence.
Austin: What do you mean?
Gio: Nova told me about you.
Austin: Nova? Your sister? I don’t understand.
Gio: Yeah. She met you last week, during the game you watched at the bar.
Austin: Last week at the bar….
Gio: The dark haired chick who was laughing at everything you said? We live in your neighborhood. I’ve gotten pretty good at spotting the red flags but every once in a while, Nova likes to play matchmaker and I’m keen to let her.
Austin: So, she scouted me for you?
Gio: More like gave me a heads-up. I’m not on any dating apps. You impressed her.
Austin: I can’t tell if I should be flattered—or if this is stalking.
Gio: Flattered. Definitely flattered. NOT STALKING good god.
Austin: Easy for YOU to say that’s not what this is—you had all the info going in. I was taken off guard.
Gio: It’s not like I knew your life story. All Nova said was “She’s funny and unrelenting and doesn’t put up with crap. Maybe you need someone like that.”
Austin: … Still deciding how I feel about this.
Gio: Well. Take your time. My goal was to make you happy with the tickets and I did, so—maybe I’ll see you around. You know, since we’re mostly in the same neighborhood.
Austin: Wait. Are you breaking up with me??
Gio: I’m giving you space LOL
7
gio
Space?
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!”