Page 157 of Faking the Goal

His lips press together for a second. "I have a meeting with Clint Murray tonight."

It takes me a second to place the name.

"The sports agent?"

"Yeah. Coach reminded me about it earlier." He exhales, looking mildly annoyed with himself. "I completely forgot about it with everything that's been going on. Murray's in town, and this was the only time he could meet before he leaves again tomorrow."

Oh.

I know enough about Kentaro's hockey career to know this isn't some meeting he can casually blow off. Clint Murray is the agent he's been hoping to sign with, and Coach Hopper has been pushing him to take the opportunity seriously.

"You can't miss that."

"I know." He doesn't sound particularly happy about it. "I'd feel a hell of a lot better if I knew you were home tonight."

Something about that makes my expression soften.

This protective side of Kentaro is still new to me. I'd seen glimpses of it before, but ever since I told him about the stalker, it's like somebody flipped a switch inside him. He worries about where I am, whether I'm alone, who's around me. Half the time he looks at my safety like it's become another problem he's personally responsible for solving.

It's... strangely sweet.

"The club has good security, Ken-chan. The bouncers don't mess around. If anyone gets handsy or steps out of line, they're gone before they know what hit them." I bump my shoulder lightly against his arm. "I'll be okay."

He looks at me, and I can practically see the argument lining itself up behind his eyes.

But he also knows me well enough by now to know how this ends.

Trying to argue me out of something once I've made up my mind is like trying to convince the ocean not to be wet.

Eventually, his shoulders drop with a defeated sigh.

I smile.

Look at that.

He's learning.

By the time I clock in at Velvet Lounge later that night, the club is already packed.

Colored lights sweep across the room as men crowd around the stage with drinks in their hands and cash already folded between their fingers. Christmas decorations hang from the ceiling in the most ironic way imaginable—sparkling garlands and tiny twinkling lights decorating a place where half the clientele has probably lied about where they were spending their evening.

Holiday season.

My favorite time of year to work.

People are feeling generous, celebrating year-end bonuses, drowning holiday stress in whiskey and bad decisions, which usually translates into one very important thing for me.

Bigger tips.

Now that is the kind of Christmas miracle I can get behind.

I'm weaving through the hallway toward the dressing room when the office door swings open and Conrad steps out, quietly closing it behind him.

His shaved head catches the overhead lights, making the guy somehow look even more intimidating than usual. At six-foot-five and built like he could bench-press a pickup truck for fun, he's the kind of bouncer that convinces drunk idiots to behave simply by existing.

I grin the moment I spot him.

"Uh-oh." I slow to a stop in front of him. "Got called into the principal's office, big guy? What'd you do this time? Beat somebody up before they even started causing trouble?"