Page 82 of Faking the Goal

She taps something into her laptop. "Fine. Have the draft ready for review as soon as possible."

"I will."

And that's it.

No good progress. No glad you managed to make it work. Not even a mildly constipated great.

Just fine.

I know damn well she expected this assignment to be a disaster. Hell, I expected this assignment to be a disaster. Kentaro could barely tolerate having me within breathing distance when we started, and now the man voluntarily gives up his lunch hour several times a week to teach me how to skate while I interrogate him about his life.

Too bad, bitch.

Sunshine and I are making progress.

I bite back a smile.

My phone vibrates beneath my thigh again.

Whatever satisfaction I got from Polly disappears almost immediately.

I don't reach for it this time.

I keep my eyes on the meeting and pretend I'm listening while the conversation moves on, but the phone feels like a live wire beneath me.

Because I know there's another message waiting.

CHAPTER 13

KENTARO

Today is supposed to be the final photo shoot for Taylor's Athlete Spotlight feature.

Supposed to be.

We'd already spent most of the afternoon getting everything she said she needed—portraits around the rink, a few shots in my gear, some candid ones while I went through parts of my normal routine—and we were almost done when the guys started showing up one by one.

According to Elijah, it would be journalistic malpractice to publish an entire feature about me without including the teammates who "personally shaped Kentaro Azuma into the elite athlete he is today."

According to Cody, they were basically responsible for my entire career.

According to me, they're all full of shit.

Taylor, unfortunately, thought the whole thing was hilarious and immediately decided more photos couldn't hurt. So what was supposed to be the end of my photo shoot somehow turned into an impromptu five-on-five scrimmage with half the team treating her camera like they're auditioning for a fucking calendar.

The puck rattles against the crossbar and I catch it in the webbing of my glove, the impact dull through the thick padding. My breath clouds in front of my face while, behind the plexiglass, Taylor moves along the boards with her camera raised, the shutter clicking in rapid bursts.

"Jesus Christ, Kent," Elijah says as he skates past the crease with his stick dragging over the ice. "You could at least pretend to struggle."

I toss the puck back toward center. "Not my fault you guys can't aim."

It's not a real game, just a scrimmage with no refs and nothing at stake beyond whatever bragging rights Elijah plans to claim afterward. Zach and Cody are near the blue line arguing about something that started three shifts ago, while Luke and Liam keep mirroring each other's movements in that creepy twin way they swear they don't do on purpose.

Taylor tracks us from behind the glass, shifting positions whenever the play moves. The midday sunlight coming through the high windows catches in her hair whenever she passes through it, turning the red almost copper. She's bundled in a heavy jacket with fingerless gloves so she can work the controls on her camera, occasionally lowering it to check a shot before immediately lifting it again.

"We're doing you a favor here," Cody calls to her, lifting his stick. "These are premium action shots. Collector's items."

"I'm literally doing my job," Taylor calls back, smiling. "And you're making it harder by standing still and talking."