Page 390 of Faking the Goal

Ten years.

Still her.

The details keep changing, but Taylor never does.

And maybe that's the only part of my future I need figured out right now.

CHAPTER 50

KENTARO

TWO MONTHS LATER

I've imagined this night more times than I can count.

Usually when I was a kid in Japan, lying awake long after I was supposed to be asleep, staring at the ceiling and wondering if I would ever actually make it here. Later, it was during five-in-the-fucking-morning practices, endless workouts, road trips, losses that pissed me off enough to keep me awake all night, and every save I made knowing there were scouts somewhere in the stands deciding whether I was good enough.

And now I'm sitting at the NHL fucking Draft.

Taylor's hand is locked tightly with mine on my right, her thumb moving back and forth over my knuckles because apparently she can tell I'm nervous even when I'm doing a damn good job pretending I'm not. Mom sits on my other side, already emotional even though nobody has called my name yet, and Miho is beside her, looking approximately three seconds away from either crying or embarrassing the shit out of me.

Probably both.

I look at them and something settles inside me.

All the women in my life are here.

The only people I need.

Dad isn't.

And for once, that doesn't leave a hole in anything.

A week before the Frozen Four, I finally told him exactly what I'd been trying to find the courage to say for years. I wasn't coming back to Japan to take over his company. I wasn't abandoning hockey because he'd decided my dream had become inconvenient. And I sure as hell wasn't going to spend the rest of my life being his fucking puppet just because he controlled the money.

Then I told him Miho and I were done.

Done with the threats. Done with the conditions attached to every dollar. Done letting him use Mom's medical expenses or Miho's future whenever he needed another string to pull.

As expected, the old man lost his fucking mind.

He threatened to cut us off.

I told him to go ahead.

He reminded us how much we'd lose without him, like money was the only fucking thing he'd ever understood about being a father.

Maybe we'll have less now. Maybe there'll be times when money gets tight and we'll have to figure shit out ourselves.

Fine.

I'd rather have nothing that's mine than everything that belongs to him.

For the first time in my life, there isn't some invisible leash around my throat waiting to yank me backward.

I'm free.

And somehow, right when one door finally slammed shut behind me, another one blew wide fucking open.