Page 34 of Faking the Goal

I haven't opened it.

I've seen it.

I've seen the four follow-up emails too.

I just haven't opened any of them.

By Tuesday afternoon, I'm heading toward the locker room with less than ten minutes before practice when I hear the rapid slap of shoes against the hallway behind me.

"Azuma!"

Fuck.

I keep walking.

"Kentaro Azuma!"

Her footsteps get faster.

"You can hear me, asshole!"

Unfortunately, I can.

I stop and turn just as Taylor catches up to me, slightly out of breath, camera bag hanging from one shoulder and her phone already clutched in her hand. She's wearing another one of those outfits she seems to own an endless supply of—a tiny black top that leaves most of her stomach bare, a short denim skirt sitting high on her thighs, and that black leather jacket she wears so often I'm starting to think it's permanently attached to her body.

I hate it.

Not because it looks bad on her. That's definitely not the fucking problem. Taylor could probably wrap herself in a garbage bag and somehow make half the campus stare. But this is how she always dresses. Tiny tops. Short skirts. Dresses that cling to every fucking curve. Enough skin on display that every guy she walks past suddenly forgets how to behave like he's seen a woman before. Then there's the makeup—always thick around her eyes, lashes dark and long, lips painted some shade designed to draw attention to them.

Everything about her seems deliberately put together to make people look.

And they do.

Constantly.

I've seen enough heads turn when she walks through the rink to know that.

Why the fuck that annoys me is another question entirely, and one I have absolutely no interest in answering.

She plants herself directly in front of me like she's finally apprehended a fugitive after an interstate manhunt.

"Hi," she says.

I raise an eyebrow. "You just called me an asshole."

"I can be polite and accurate at the same time."

I almost smile.

Almost.

Instead, I glance toward the locker room. "I have practice."

"Yes, I'm aware. That's why I've been speed-walking across campus trying to catch you before you disappear into the hockey dimension for the next three hours." She holds up her phone. "Did you read my email?"

"No."

Her eyes close for a second. "Azuma."