Page 149 of Faking the Goal

This isn't my bed.

I blink around the room, still half-dead, until the manga stacked on the nightstand and the painfully neat furniture finally register.

I'm in Kentaro's room.

I push myself upright, and press both palms against my temples until the room stops gently swaying. I vaguely remember coming back to the hockey house with Kentaro last night. Everything after that is a little fuzzy, but considering I'm still wearing yesterday's dress and all my underwear appears to be where I left it, I'm going to assume I didn't do anything catastrophically stupid.

Kentaro isn't here though.

I scan the room, half expecting to find him buried behind another stack of manga or stretched across the bed reading, but there's no sign of him anywhere.

After washing my face, brushing my teeth with the spare toothbrush he gave me, and spending several seconds staring into the bathroom mirror wondering when exactly I became the crypt keeper, I head downstairs in desperate need of water.

I barely make it halfway down before something rich and savory drifts through the house.

My stomach immediately growls.

Well... Looks like I'm following my nose instead.

Sure enough, I find Kentaro standing in the kitchen, his back to me as he carefully ladles steaming broth into two bowls. The entire room smells incredible—deep, rich, and comforting in a way that instantly reminds me of home-cooked meals I never really had growing up.

"Hey," I croak, wandering over. "What are you making?"

He glances over his shoulder. "Ramen."

"Ooh."

My dead body discovers new life and carries me the rest of the way toward the island.

Kentaro looks me over once. "How's the hangover?"

"Terrible." I drag myself the rest of the way into the kitchen. "My head feels like it's trying to split open, and I'm pretty sure my stomach is still deciding whether it hates me."

"You did drink a lot."

I glare at him. "I'm aware. I was there."

He turns back to the bowls before I can glare any harder, adding the last few toppings with way more care than I'd expect from someone making breakfast for a hungover disaster. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I shuffle closer to peek over the island.

The sight waiting for me makes my eyes widen.

The broth is a creamy golden color, thin slices of chashu rest neatly against the noodles, a marinated egg sits perfectly halved in the center, and bright green scallions finish everything off. It looks like something straight out of an actual ramen shop.

"You made this from scratch?"

"Mhm." He places another sheet of nori against the side of the bowl. "Mom made the noodles, though. Ramen's kind of my comfort food, so I always keep some stocked here."

"What kind is it?"

"Tonkotsu."

He sets one of the bowls in front of me.

"Sit."

For once in my life, I obey without argument.

"And eat. You need food in you. The broth should help with the hangover."