Page 10 of Faking the Goal

I lace the greeting with that low, velvety tone that lives somewhere in the back of my throat and only comes out when I'm feeling particularly mischievous.

The effect is immediate.

Grins spread across the bench, some cocky, some bashful, and one guy actually lets out a low whistle. Davis, one of their centers and the proud owner of a smile that tells me his parents spent an ungodly amount of money on orthodontics, actually lifts his hand in an eager little wave.

Adorable.

"What are you doing here, T?" the twin asks.

My eyes drop to the number on his jersey.

Eighty-eight. It's Luke.

"I'm here on official Student Media business." I lift my camera.

Luke's eyebrows shoot up. "Where's Brett?"

Brett is another photojournalist for Student Media and the poor bastard who has spent the past two years covering hockey practices, games, interviews, and whatever other sweaty nonsense the team gets up to. Unfortunately for him—and very fortunately for me—our assignments got switched around this year.

"Brett got reassigned to football," I tell them. "So congratulations, boys. You're stuck with me now."

A chorus of cheers erupts along the bench.

"Hell yes!"

"Best fucking news I've heard all week."

"I'm suddenly way more motivated to come to practice," Davis says.

"You realize I'm mostly here to take pictures of you falling on your asses, right?"

Davis clutches his chest like I've just shot him.

"You wound me, T. Right here." He points vaguely somewhere between his heart and possibly his spleen. "Right in the masculinity."

"Your masculinity will survive. It's built like a Volvo."

That gets another round of laughter out of them, and I grin as I lift my camera.

I'm scanning the ice while they chat, and that's when I see him.

Kentaro.

He's skating toward the bench with that particular goalie gait. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, helmet tucked under one arm, his free hand dragging through the damp strands as he coasts in.

Then he sees me.

His lips purse. His jaw tightens. His entire face scrunches up like he's just bitten directly into a lemon, seeds and all, and found the experience personally offensive. I can actually hear the grunt from here, a low, displeased sound he doesn't bother to muffle as he drops onto the bench with the grace of a falling wardrobe.

"Why is she everywhere?" he mutters, to no one in particular. Possibly to God.

I roll my eyes so hard I'm briefly concerned they might detach and roll under the bench.

Seriously, what is this guy's problem with me?

Our interactions can literally be counted on one hand with fingers to spare. The first time we met was after Kirk attacked me, when Zach introduced us before running off to deal with something and asked Kentaro to keep an eye on me for a while. We barely even spoke that night. Then there was the football house last week, when I tried to thank him for helping me and he made his feelings about my promiscuity pretty fucking clear.

And now he's looking at me like my presence at his practice has personally ruined his fucking day.