Page 12 of Faking the Goal

And suddenly, a wonderfully terrible idea pops into my head.

"Honestly, Davis," I say, "I think I have a thing for brooding. Tortured. Has the personality of a pissed-off porcupine." I tilt my head toward the goalie. "What do you say, goalie? Wanna buy me a drink?"

The glare he sends me could level buildings.

I immediately start laughing, which only makes his scowl deepen, which naturally makes me laugh even harder.

"No," he says flatly.

"No?"

"No."

I press my hand to my chest. "You're really going to reject me in front of everyone?"

"I'm not rejecting you. I'm declining to engage with whatever this is." He gestures vaguely in my direction, as though I'm a weather event he's been advised to avoid.

"That's just a longer way of saying rejected."

"It's a more accurate way."

"So there's a chance."

His hazel eyes narrow. "Not happening."

I grin. "Why? Scared you'll fall in love with me?"

"You are not my type."

"Ouch." I press my hand harder against my heart, putting on my most wounded expression. "I'm devastated."

Something shifts across his face. It's barely there, just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like a smile almost made the catastrophic mistake of showing itself before he killed it.

Then he stands, grabs his water bottle, and heads toward the far end of the rink without another word.

The silence he leaves behind is spectacular.

Meanwhile, I can't stop smiling because if getting under Kentaro Azuma's skin is this fucking easy, I have a feeling annoying the shit out of him is about to become the highlight of my days.

CHAPTER 3

TAYLOR

The arena is already packed by the time I make my way down to the tunnel.

Not surprising.

Nobody at Ridgewater misses a Warriors home game unless they're hospitalized, actively dying, or have somehow managed to develop an allergy to hot hockey players. The student section is a solid wall of navy and white, already chanting loud enough to make the concrete beneath my boots vibrate, while thousands of screaming fans fill the stands, collectively making sure nobody leaves here tonight with their hearing fully intact.

Music pounds through the speakers. The scoreboard flashes overhead. And tucked beside the mouth of the tunnel, safely out of the players' path, is yours truly.

I adjust the settings on my camera and raise it, checking the shot toward the ice. This is one of my favorite parts of covering games—the few minutes before everything explodes into motion. The lights, the noise, the anticipation rolling through the arena while the players crowd somewhere behind me, waiting for their cue.

Then the announcer's voice booms through the speakers.

The crowd loses its fucking mind.

The Warriors start pouring out of the tunnel and I immediately get to work.