Page 225 of Faking the Goal

I'm already pushing myself up when Taylor reaches me and plants a hand firmly on my shoulder.

"Nobody move. I already found a seat."

The look she gives me tells me exactly what she means before her fingers slide slowly along my shoulder and around the back of my neck.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Luke mutters.

Taylor ignores him and settles herself comfortably across my lap, looping her arms around my neck before leaning in and kissing me.

I barely have time to register the taste of her lipstick before the kiss deepens, and my hands automatically settle around her waist, pulling her closer until she's pressed firmly against me. She kisses me like she has nowhere else to be, and I kiss her back the same way, completely forgetting about lunch, the cafeteria, or the assholes sitting around us until she finally pulls away.

"Miss me, babe?" she asks, flashing me a seductive smile and fluttering her lashes.

I grunt and tighten my arms around her. "All the time."

Her smile falters for just a second, something softer replacing all that exaggerated flirting before it returns twice as bright.

Fuck, I love having her like this.

There's something ridiculously satisfying about the weight of her on my lap, the casual way her arm stays looped around my shoulders, the warmth of her body tucked against mine like this is exactly where she belongs. And lately, touching her has become so natural that I barely think about it anymore. My hand moves along her waist because I want it there. She plays with the hair at the back of my neck because apparently she likes doing it. I pull her closer whenever she shifts because having even a few inches between us feels unnecessary.

Judging by the chorus of disgust around the table, everyone else has noticed too.

"You two finished?" Cody asks.

"No," I say.

Taylor laughs against my shoulder while Luke makes a gagging sound.

"Anyway." She turns back to me, practically vibrating with excitement now. "Guess what came out today."

"What?"

She immediately reaches into her bag and pulls out a copy of The Ridgewater Chronicle. "The magazine's winter issue."

Her excitement is contagious. She flips through the magazine until she finds what she's looking for, then shifts sideways on my lap so we can both see the spread.

"Look."

Her Athlete Spotlight feature stretches across several pages, my name printed prominently across the opening spread beside one of the photographs she took of me at the rink. She starts talking almost immediately, pointing out the layout, which pictures they chose, how they arranged the smaller shots around the article, and how relieved she is that they used the photograph she fought to keep because apparently someone had wanted another one instead.

I'm listening, but mostly I'm staring at what she created.

"See?" She taps one of the photographs. "I told you I could make you look good."

"You did."

"Exceptionally good."

"Don't push it."

She grins and leans closer while I start reading.

I should probably be focused on seeing my own accomplishments laid out across these pages, but all I can think about is how fucking talented she is. The photographs are incredible, but it's the article that keeps my attention. She took everything I gave her during those interviews—hockey, Japan, my family, the pressure that comes with playing at this level—and somehow turned it into something that sounds like me without simply repeating what I told her. She found meaning in things I hadn't even realized were worth mentioning.

She was right when she told me she could make me look good.

She did it with the camera, but somehow she did it even better with her words.