Page 106 of Faking the Goal

Past the version of Taylor Lewis everybody on campus thinks they know because they've seen me drunk on a dance floor or leaving with some guy.

He'd seen me work at the strip club. He'd seen how seriously I take my photography even when I bitch about the assignments. He'd seen me sit with my laptop for hours trying to get a feature right. He'd watched me fall on my ass over and over again on the ice and still drag myself back up because I was determined to learn how to skate no matter how many bruises I collected in the process. He'd listened when I told him things I don't normally tell anyone.

And stupidly, I thought all of that had started to matter more than my reputation.

I thought maybe I had started to matter more than my reputation.

Hell, this morning I was sitting across from him wondering if maybe, when this whole feature was finished, we could actually be friends.

The thought makes something ache deep in my chest.

God, I'm an idiot.

Because apparently four weeks wasn't enough to change anything.

Strip away the conversations and the teasing and those weird little moments when being around him had started feeling almost easy, and there it is.

The same judgment he had of me from the beginning.

Cheap.

Easy.

Trashy.

A girl who shows too much skin and has slept with too many athletes to ever qualify as the kind of woman Kentaro Azuma considers classy.

I squeeze the pillow tighter against my chest as my eyes start burning all over again.

Fuck him.

And fuck me a little too, because I should've known better.

This is exactly why I don't let people close enough for their opinions to matter.

People can't hurt you with what they think of you when you don't give a shit what they think.

That system has worked beautifully for years.

Then I went and made the incredibly stupid mistake of letting Kentaro Azuma become someone whose opinion I actually cared about.

And look how fucking well that turned out.

I shove my face back into the pillow and scream until my lungs run out of air, then lift my head and yell, "Fuck you, Kentaro Azuma!" at absolutely nobody.

My phone starts ringing before I can decide whether the pillow deserves another beating, and for some stupid reason, my first thought is that it's him.

Maybe Kentaro finally realized what a colossal fucking asshole he was and is calling to apologize.

The thought soothes some of the hurt still sitting heavy in my chest, which is ridiculous. I'm furious with him. I shouldn't want to hear from him right now.

And yet, apparently some pathetic little part of me does.

I grab my phone without looking at the screen and answer. "If you're calling to apologize, you better come prepared, Sunshine, because 'sorry' isn't getting you out of this one. I want groveling. I want shame. I want a detailed explanation of why you're a judgmental dickhead followed by a PowerPoint presentation on all the reasons I should ever speak to you again."

Nothing comes from the other end.

I frown. "Hello?"