Page 90 of Faking the Goal

Her fingers fly across the keyboard for another minute before she finally stops and flicks her wrist with a groan.

"Aaand... done." She shifts the laptop higher on her thighs and looks at me. "You ready?"

I nod and take a sip of my Americano. "Yeah."

Her fingers hover over the keyboard. "Okay. After spending the last few weeks watching you train at an ungodly hour, I have to ask—have you always been this disciplined, or did hockey turn you into a psychopath?"

I almost smile. "Both."

"Very insightful. Really glad I woke up at seven for this."

"You asked."

She snorts and starts typing. "Fine. Serious answer."

I lean back against the couch. "I've always been disciplined, but hockey made it necessary. At this level, talent only gets you so far. Everybody's talented. If you want to stay ahead, you have to be willing to work when everyone else is sleeping, tired, or taking the day off."

Her fingers move quickly over the keyboard before she glances at her next question.

"What would you say is the hardest part about being a goalie that people who don't play the position probably don't understand?"

"How quickly you have to forget."

Her eyes lift from the screen.

"You can play perfectly for fifty-nine minutes and still lose the game on one mistake. If I keep thinking about a goal I should've stopped, I'm already distracted when the next shot comes. You have to figure out what went wrong, let it go, and reset before the puck comes back."

Taylor nods slowly as she types. "So basically, hockey taught you emotional repression."

"That's not what I said."

"It's what I heard."

I shake my head and reach for my coffee while she smiles at her screen.

Almost an hour later, Taylor scrolls through her notes, humming quietly to herself as she skims over everything we've talked about. She nods once, seemingly satisfied, before looking back up at me.

"Okay... I think I'm down to my last few questions."

"Go ahead."

She glances at the screen again.

"You've been one of the top goalies in Division I this season, and everyone keeps talking about how good your chances are next year." She looks back at me. "What are you hoping to accomplish before you leave Ridgewater U?"

I don't have to think very long about the answer.

"I want another Frozen Four."

"Of course it is," she murmurs, amused. "I don't know why I expected anything less."

She taps another key before looking up again.

"What about after college?" She tilts her head. "Are you hoping to hear your name called in the NHL Draft next June?"

For a second, I don't hear the quiet murmur of the café anymore. All I hear is my father's voice, threatening to pull funding for my mom's treatment and Miho's tuition in Paris if I refused to come home and take over the family business.

Without realizing it, my free hand has curled into a fist against my thigh so tightly my fingernails are digging into my palm.