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)
She waves a hand dismissively. “Not the same thing. This is heckling. It’s tradition. You’re doing it out of love.”
“No one else knows that!” I gesture to the surrounding crowd. “To them, I’m just some psycho yelling insults at their precious goalie.”
Whom I also totally love.
Not love, love—but you get what I’m saying.
He’s my favorite.
She laughs, tipping her head toward a guy a few rows down. “Look around you—half the crowd is pissed off at him for those losses.” She points at the man’s oversized foam finger, which is clearly not being used for supportive purposes. “See that guy? He hates Gio. His sign literally says ‘GIO EATS SHIT.’”
I squint at the crude letters painted on the obnoxiously large poster. “He’s a Nashville fan, Nova. Of course he wants Gio to eat shit.”
“Exactly!” she says triumphantly, throwing her hands in the air. “You’ll blend right in! Come on, get up.”
I stay firmly planted in my seat, crossing my arms. “This is peer pressure, and I don’t appreciate it.”
“This is the reason you’re here,” she counters, undeterred. “Do it.”
Before I can protest, she gives me a nudge, and somehow, against all better judgment, my ass rises out of my seat. The crowd roars around us as a near miss on the ice draws everyone’s attention.
Perfect—no one will notice me making a fool of myself.
I groan as she hands me the GET IT TOGETHER sign.
Take a deep breath.
Glance around nervously down at the ice. For a second, I wonder if he’s even aware of the crowd. Then, with a burst of courage—or insanity—I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “HEY, GIO! MY GRANDMOTHER HANDLES A PUCK BETTER THAN YOU!”
The words echo loud and clear, slicing through the cheers and whistles.
It feels as if everyone heard it.
On the ice, Gio’s head snaps up. Even with his helmet on, I can feel the glare he’s aiming in our direction. He shakes his head, and I’m pretty sure I see his shoulders shake in a laugh before he refocuses on the game.
“Happy now?” I ask.
My heart is pounding in my throat and I’ve never had this much unwanted attention before in my life. I hate it. Heat creeps up my neck, pooling in my cheeks, as if everyone in the arena is staring at me (they’re not, but it sure feels like they are).
“No,” his sister demands, straightening up with a mischievous grin. “Do one more.”
I gasp. “Absolutely not.”
“Now you have stage fright?” She laughs. “Yell one more insult and I’ll buy you nachos.”
That gets my attention because I could totally eat a snack.
All I have is this measly beer, and drinking on an empty stomach isn’t exactly smart. My stomach growls in agreement, making the decision all the more tempting.
I glance back at the ice, where Gio is crouched in the crease, his glove and stick poised, completely in the zone. The opposing team is charging down the rink, and the puck flies from player to player with lightning speed.
It’s a tense moment, the crowd leaning forward in collective anticipation.
“Fine,” I mutter, gripping my sign tightly. “But if I get booed, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
Nova claps her hands together, positively gleeful. “Deal. But make it count!”
I wish she’d stop telling me what to do as I focus my attention on Gio; the puck hurtles toward him. Then. Just as the opposing player winds up for a slapshot, I yell at the top of my lungs, “HEY, GIO! ARE YOU GONNA STOP THAT PUCK OR INVITE IT TO DINNER?”
It’s loud.
So much louder than I intended.
So loud in fact, several heads turn my way.
I watch in horror as Gio flinches—it’s enough to throw him off.
The puck zips past his glove and into the net. The goal horn blares, and the opposing team’s fans erupt in cheers. My jaw falls open as he stands, broad shoulders rising and falling with exaggerated breaths.
He turns his head, looking directly at me. Even from here, I can see the glare in his eyes, like he’s silently saying, Really?
The guy with the GIO EATS SHIT sign raises his foam finger in a salute of approval and waves it at me in solidarity.
Great.
I’ve joined the ranks of the haters.
Nova is dying beside me, doubled over with laughter. Positively. Dying.
“That was perfect.” She can barely speak. “You’re officially my favorite person.”
“I just cost him a goal!” I hiss, sinking back into my seat and hiding my face behind the sign. DON’T LOOK AT ME!
“He’s going to kill me.”
“No he’s not,” Nova says, waving me off. “If anything, he’s going to play even harder now just to spite you. Watch.”
Sure enough, as the game continues, Gio is a brick wall. He deflects every shot with precision and speed, his movements sharper and more aggressive than before. The throng roars with every save, and even I can’t help but cheer for him, my earlier embarrassment fading into awe.