Page 386 of Faking the Goal

Her hand goes completely still inside mine.

Good.

Exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

The lounge is almost unrecognizable.

The couches, reading chairs, and little tables that normally fill the room have all been moved out for the night. In their place, artificial cherry blossom trees stretch across the space, their branches heavy with pale pink flowers that overlap overhead and turn the ceiling into a canopy of blossoms.

I had the main lights shut off, leaving the entire room glowing beneath hundreds of tiny fairy lights woven through the branches. Japanese lanterns hang between them, casting a warm amber glow across the blossoms, while clusters of flameless candles flicker around the edges of the room.

It doesn't feel like Sakura Café anymore.

It feels like we stepped straight into one of Taylor's fucking mangas.

Right beneath the largest cluster of cherry trees, cream blankets and woven mats cover the floor, surrounded by oversized pillows and cushions. A low wooden table sits in the middle, already set with dinner, candles flickering between little ceramic dishes and neatly arranged bento boxes.

There are plates of colorful hanami dango, onigiri shaped like flowers and animals because apparently I've lost all fucking dignity, tamagoyaki, karaage, sushi, fruit cut into tiny flowers, mochi, and pretty much every other Japanese food Taylor has ever pointed at in a manga and announced that she absolutely needed to try someday.

But I know the second Taylor looks up that the food isn't going to be what gets her.

Photographs hang from the branches above us on thin ribbons, mixed between the blossoms and lights.

Pictures of us.

Some ridiculous. Some I didn't even know existed until Miho sent them to me. Taylor glaring at me through her camera at the rink. Her clinging to me the first time I taught her to skate. Us at the Frozen Four. Her in my jersey. Her arms around my neck after I got drafted.

And between every few photographs hangs a small handwritten note.

Things I've never said to her.

Memories I never told her I kept.

Little pieces of us, hanging beneath the cherry blossoms for her to find.

And when we're done eating, we can lie back against those pillows, look up through the glowing pink branches, and read every fucking one together.

I glance at Taylor.

She's still standing at the entrance with her mouth slightly open.

"Ken-chan..." she whispers.

Yeah.

Worth every fucking minute it took to turn her favorite manga lounge into a cherry blossom sanctuary.

I glance down.

Her mouth has fallen open.

Her eyes are already shining.

Oh, fuck.

"Don't cry."

She slowly turns toward me. "Don't—" Her voice cracks. "Don't fucking tell me not to cry, Kentaro Azuma. What the fuck is this?"