Page 104 of Faking the Goal

But I've never seen her cry.

And knowing I'm the reason she is now makes me feel like the lowest fucking piece of shit walking this earth.

Four weeks.

Four weeks of slowly getting past all that shit between us. Four weeks of discovering the woman underneath everything I'd assumed about her. This morning she sat across from me and admitted that nobody ever really tries to know her. She fucking trusted me enough to tell me that.

And tonight, the second I got angry and jealous, I reached for the exact things I knew would hurt her most.

I became exactly the asshole she thought I was when we met.

Worse.

Because back then, she didn't give a shit what I thought of her.

Now she does.

Or she did.

Fuck.

There isn't enough whiskey in this entire goddamn club to make me forget the look on her face right now.

CHAPTER 16

TAYLOR

I barely make it through the front door before I kick off my shoes, throw my bag somewhere into the general vicinity of the couch, and launch myself face-first onto my bed with a scream muffled by my pillow.

"You absolute—" I smack the pillow once. Twice. Three times. "Judgmental, self-righteous, condescending, puck-faced bastard."

I flip onto my back, grab the pillow, and whack it against the mattress. In my head, it has Kentaro's face on it. Kentaro with that stupid scowl. Kentaro with that stupid, clipped voice. Kentaro with that I have standards and you don't fucking meet them bullshit like he's God's personal authority on classy women and not just some broody hockey player with a god complex and the emotional range of a brick wall.

"Fuckity fuck fuck fuck," I say to the empty room. It doesn't help. I try again, louder. "Shitgibbon. Asshat. Dickwaffle."

"I hope your stupid stick snaps in half," I hiss at the ceiling. "I hope all your protein powder expires. I hope your headphones only work on one side. I hope your left skate lace breaks in the middle of practice and Coach Hopper makes you do suicides for it."

I slap the pillow over my face and scream into it again.

God, I hate him.

I hate him so much right now.

And I hate that out of everything he said, it's the way he looked at me when he said it that keeps replaying in my head.

I like women who are modest. Classy.

Like those things automatically exclude me.

Like the amount of skin I show somehow determines how much class I have.

My eyes burn again, and I angrily shove the heels of my palms against them.

Nope.

Absolutely fucking not.

We are not crying over Kentaro Azuma again. Once tonight was already one time too many, and I refuse to give that asshole an encore from twenty miles away.