Page 13 of Faking the Goal

One after another, navy-and-white jerseys rush past me and onto the ice, and my finger works the shutter almost continuously as I follow them through the viewfinder. They all have that same look tonight—amped up, focused, practically vibrating with adrenaline like they're not skating out to play three periods of hockey but marching into some frozen battlefield armed with sticks, blades, and a concerning amount of unresolved aggression.

Honestly, hockey really is just war with better dental insurance.

A couple of the guys notice me as they pass and play shamelessly to the camera. Davis points at my lens before tapping the Warriors logo on his chest. Another gives me a quick nod and a grin.

Then the Archer twins come barreling through.

Liam spots me first and turns his head just enough to give my camera a wink as I catch him mid-stride.

Click.

Luke follows two seconds later, sees exactly what his brother did, and apparently decides a wink isn't sufficiently obnoxious because he presses two fingers to his mouth and blows me a kiss directly into the lens.

Click.

"Fucking show-off," I mutter, laughing behind my camera.

Then the last player emerges from the tunnel.

Oh, goody.

My favorite ray of fucking sunshine.

Kentaro steps into view in full goalie gear, mask pushed up on top of his head as he heads toward the ice. Unlike the rest of his teammates, he isn't grinning or playing to the crowd. Of course he isn't. His face is already locked into that serious game-day expression of his, brows drawn together and mouth set in a hard line—not that it looks much different from his regular expression. Maybe the scowl is half a degree deeper today. Hard to tell.

I raise my camera.

Click. Click. Click.

His head snaps toward me on the second shot, and on the third, the flash catches him directly enough that his eyes squeeze shut and his face jerks slightly away.

I snort.

Oh my God.

Did the terrifying Kentaro Azuma just flinch?

His eyes open.

And immediately find me.

The look he gives me could sour milk.

I lower the camera just enough to smile innocently over the top of it.

He slows, then stops.

"Would you stop pointing that fucking thing at my face?"

I blink at him as though I'm having tremendous difficulty hearing him over the crowd. "Sorry, what?"

"You heard me."

"It's really loud in here." I cup one hand dramatically around my ear. "You'll have to speak up."

His eyes narrow because he knows damn well I'm fucking with him.

"Stop taking pictures of me."