Page 188 of Faking the Goal

The opposing team gains possession again, and I immediately bring the camera to my eye.

Their winger comes flying down the right side, slips past one of Ridgewater's defensemen, and snaps the puck toward the crease.

Kentaro drops.

The puck hits his pad and ricochets away.

"YES!"

I nearly launch myself over the barrier.

"KEEP YOUR FILTHY PUCKS AWAY FROM MY BOYFRIEND'S HOLE!"

The second the words leave my mouth, a very specific kind of silence seems to form around me—not because the arena is actually quiet, because thousands of people are still screaming, but because the three women standing closest to me have all turned to stare. One looks horrified, another looks mildly offended, and the third has her lips pressed together like she's desperately trying not to laugh.

It takes me a second to realize why.

"Oh." I clear my throat and lower my camera slightly. "Goal. I meant goal."

That does it. The third woman immediately breaks into laughter, and I turn back toward the ice with whatever dignity I have left, which at this point is not much.

Jesus Christ.

Maybe four coffees was one too many.

Through the glass, Kentaro straightens in the crease while the Warriors clear the puck toward center ice. For half a second, his helmet turns in my direction.

There's no fucking way he heard me from down there.

At least, I sincerely hope not.

Although knowing him, he'd probably just stare at me with that permanently unimpressed expression and ask whether I understand basic human anatomy.

I grin to myself and raise my camera again.

The game picks up speed, and for the next several minutes, I manage to behave like the serious photojournalist I'm supposed to be. I move along the boards when I need a better angle, crouch near the glass for shots of Cody battling for the puck, catch one of the Archer twins slamming an opponent into the boards, and nearly get the perfect shot of Zach sending the puck screaming toward the net.

Nearly.

Because my attention keeps drifting back to number thirty-one.

I can't help it.

Kentaro is different when he's in the crease.

The quiet, controlled guy who can spend an entire morning reading manga without saying more than five words somehow becomes even more intense once he pulls that mask over his face. Every movement is sharp and deliberate. His entire body seems locked onto the puck, tracking it through traffic like nothing else in the arena exists.

And fuck, it's hot.

It was hot before he became my fake boyfriend.

Now I'm wearing his jersey while watching him stop another man from scoring, and apparently that has awakened something deeply primitive in me.

Another shot comes flying toward him.

Kentaro catches it.

My fist shoots into the air.