Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I’m doomed.
Swipe.
Swipe.
Then.
I see another profile that looks familiar.
I freeze, holding the phone closer to my face than necessary, my heart skipping a beat as I stare at Luca’s bio—as in Luca Babineaux, my brother's teammate and the guy Austin and I had been gossiping about months ago…
“No way,” I whisper, my brows furrowing as I study his profile.
Luca’s profile picture is exactly what you’d expect from a good-looking athlete: standing on a beach, shirtless, with a volleyball tucked under one arm and a smug grin that could rival Gio’s cocky on any given day. His bio? Goal-oriented. Literally. Bonus points if you like dogs and can handle trash-talking during game night.
Well.
That’s snarkier and more clever than I would’ve given him credit for, considering I’ve always thought Luca Babineaux seemed boring as fuck.
I squint at the screen; something about it doesn’t sit right.
Where are the hockey pictures? The gear? The action shots from their games?
Not a single one.
Instead, I’m greeted with more photos of Luca on a beach or on a catamaran, laughing with his arm slung around Paulie Osborne—a famous comedian, of all people.
“Okay, what?” I mutter, flipping to the next photo.
There’s one of him in a flannel, holding a coffee cup during what looks like the holidays. A random mountain range looms out the living room window, majestic and snowy and gorgeous.
Then there’s Luca on a motorcycle, looking like he just strolled out of a movie set.
“Who the hell is this guy?” I ask no one, my voice dripping with suspicion.
I keep scrolling.
I’m so fascinated.
Him standing with two young women that resemble him—sisters? Cousins? Another photo of him snorkeling, his face half-hidden behind goggles and a snorkel tube.
And then there’s a selfie of him hiking with that black lab puppy he had six months ago—only now, the dog’s mostly grown, its floppy ears framing an adorably derpy face.
I set my phone down for a moment, rubbing my temples.
It doesn’t make sense. Luca’s life isn’t this…glamorous. Is it? I mean, he plays hockey, hangs out with my brother and his teammates, and from what I know—goes home and sleeps. None of this beach-and-motorcycle nonsense fits the image I have of him.
Unless…
I glance back at the screen, narrowing my eyes.
Could someone be pretending to be him? It wouldn’t be hard—there are hundreds of photos of him on the internet.
“What do you think, Gio?” I say to the dog, asking for his advice. “Is this him, or is someone out there pretending to be Luca freaking Babineaux?”
Gio yawns, showing off his tiny, uneven teeth, and turns his head away, clearly over my dramatics.
“Thanks for your input,” I mutter, picking my phone back up.
I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen.
Do I swipe right and investigate? Or do I swipe left and pretend I never saw it?
Because if it’s him and we match…it’s going to be super awkward because that means he swiped right on me too.
But if it’s not him…it could be hilarious.
I hold my breath.
Close my eyes.
Before I can stop myself, I swipe right, heart pounding for reasons I’d rather not analyze.
I toss my phone onto the coffee table like it’s made of lava and cross my arms.
“Oh my God!” NO, I DID NOT!
“No way he swipes back,” I reason aloud, sending those vibes into the universe. Oh my God this is so embarrassing! “There is no freaking way.”
A few seconds pass. Then my phone pings.
One new match!
My stomach twists as I grab the phone, my pulse quickening. Sure enough, there it is: Luca has matched with you.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper, staring at the screen. My chest tightens as I glance over at Gio again, hoping he’ll wake up and offer some kind of moral support. He doesn’t. Of course.
“What do I do, what do I do?!” I groan, flopping back against the couch cushions. My mind races as I imagine every possible outcome of this—most of them ending in complete and utter humiliation.
Panic at the disco. Full-blown freak-out mode.
Holy shit.
I sit up abruptly, clutching my phone like it’s my lifeline. “Okay, Nova. Calm down. It’s probably not even him. It’s probably just some random dude using his pictures.”
The phone pings again.
Luca has sent you a note!
“I can’t look.”
Yes, you can. Stop being a wuss.
I take a deep breath and peek at the screen, through my fingers.
Luca: Does Gio know you swiped right on me?
Well. That solves that mystery. This is one-hundred percent my brother's teammate.
Grinning despite myself, I tap out a cheeky response.
Me: Gio is not the boss of me.
Luca: Good to know.
I stare at that sentence, my heart and stomach doing a stupid little flip; something about the brevity of it feels deliberately careful, like he’s testing the waters.
Another message immediately pops up.
Luca: But I’m sure he’d have opinions.
I snort, rolling my eyes
Me: Gio always has opinions.
The dots appear again, and I find myself leaning forward, waiting for whatever he’s going to say next.