Page 11 of Faking the Goal

I cross my arms. "Nice to see you too, Sunshine."

He grunts again.

Honestly, I'm starting to think that's his primary form of communication.

Several of the other players immediately reclaim my attention, and Davis apparently decides this is the perfect opportunity to shoot his shot.

His grin turns mischievous. "T, is it true you and Zach are done?"

"True."

"Like, done done?"

"Very done."

It wasn't exactly a breakup because there hadn't been much to break in the first place. Aside from Zach's closest friends, nobody knew our relationship had mostly been an arrangement. A mutually beneficial business transaction.

I got a six-foot-two hockey player attached to my side to intimidate my ex-boyfriend and keep him from coming near me, while Zach got some relief from the endless parade of puck bunnies throwing themselves at him.

Everybody won.

Well, mostly.

The point is, we were never really together.

The rest of campus just didn't know that.

"Fuuuuck," Davis says, dragging out the word. "So does that mean you're officially back on the market?"

He waggles his eyebrows.

It's so absurd I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from cackling.

"I suppose I am."

From somewhere to my left comes another grunt. Low and displeased, the auditory equivalent of an eye roll.

Kentaro.

Because of fucking course.

Davis either doesn't hear him or doesn't care, because he does a full, unironic fist pump like he just scored the winning goal.

"So what do you say?" he asks, leaning toward me with what he clearly thinks is his most persuasive smile. "We get out of here after practice? There's this place downtown that does two-for-one until nine, and then maybe..." He lets the rest hang there, his eyebrows doing enough work to make his intentions painfully obvious.

I laugh softly, covering my mouth with one hand in a giggle that's only partially performative. "Aww, sorry, Davis, honey, but you aren't exactly my type."

His face falls, but only for a second. "No? What's your type, then? I'm versatile. I can be anything. Tall, dark, mysterious—"

My eyes drift to the left before I can stop them.

Kentaro is sitting there with his arms crossed, his practice jersey dark with sweat across the shoulders and his jaw set in that permanent line of someone who's either severely constipated or deeply committed to making himself as unapproachable as humanly possible.

His hazel eyes are already fixed on me.

The moment our gazes catch, he doesn't look away.

Neither do I.