Page 47 of Faking the Goal

"Learn hockey."

"No, that's insane."

"You want authenticity, don't you?"

"Obviously."

"Then you'll need hands-on experience. You can't properly describe something you've never experienced."

"I can absolutely describe hockey."

"You can describe watching hockey."

The smug bastard actually has a point, and I hate him for it.

"Go put these on so we can get started." He holds the skates toward me.

I stare at the skates, then at him.

Shit.

Actual, genuine, grade-A, premium-quality shit.

"Right. Skates. Putting them on. Got it."

I take them from him with what I hope are steady hands, but there's one teeny-tiny detail I've neglected to mention.

I don't know how to skate.

At all.

I've never ice-skated. Never rollerbladed. Growing up in foster care, skating was hardly an activity anyone thought to sign me up for, and I've managed perfectly fine keeping both feet on solid ground for the past twenty years.

Apparently, that streak ends today.

"Taylor."

"Yep."

"Move."

I force a smile. "Right. Moving."

I turn toward the bleachers, taking my sweet-ass time getting there. Maybe if I move slowly enough, he'll change his mind. Maybe he'll remember we have an actual interview to do and realize watching me bust my ass on the ice isn't necessary for journalistic integrity.

No such luck.

I drop my bags onto one of the seats and reluctantly start changing into the skates.

This was definitely not on my agenda today.

Unfortunately, I've known Kentaro long enough to recognize when he's made up his mind, and once that happens, arguing with him is useless. The man has the flexibility of reinforced concrete.

A few minutes later, I stand and immediately grab the back of the seat in front of me.

Oh, fuck.

The blades make my ankles feel horribly unstable, and walking in them isn't much better. I hold onto the railing as I make my way toward the rink, trying to look somewhat dignified while basically clinging to anything sturdy enough to support my weight.