Page 145 of Faking the Goal

I recognize him almost immediately.

Corey Finnegan. One of Ridgewater's linebackers.

He's dressed for the party in dark jeans and a fitted black button-down with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, a beer bottle hanging loosely from one hand. His hair is clipped short along the sides and longer on top, styled with enough product that I doubt a category-five hurricane could move it.

Objectively, he's a good-looking guy. The kind of athlete the university loves sticking on recruitment posters because he looks good smiling beside the Ridgewater logo.

Right now, however, he isn't smiling.

His attention goes straight to Taylor before sliding toward me, and something in his expression changes when he notices my arm around her.

"Sup, T."

Taylor gives him a polite smile. "Hey, Corey."

"How've you been? Haven't seen you around much."

"Oh, you know." She shrugs. "Just been busy."

His gaze drops to my arm across her shoulders and stays there long enough for his grip on the beer bottle to tighten.

"I can see that."

His eyes lift to mine, and the hostility in them isn't exactly subtle.

Well.

The feeling is mutual.

Neither of us looks away. He seems to be waiting for me to acknowledge whatever silent challenge he's throwing at me, but I've stared down six-foot-four forwards charging toward my crease at full speed while a puck comes flying at my face.

One pissed-off linebacker isn't going to make me blink.

If anything, I pull Taylor a little closer.

Corey notices.

Of course he fucking notices.

"Didn't know you two were..." His gaze flicks between us. "...close."

A humorless laugh slips out of me.

"Close?" My arm tightens around Taylor until she's tucked firmly against my side. "That's cute."

I glance down at her, unable to stop the smugness creeping into my voice.

"I'd say we're a little past close, wouldn't you, baby?"

Taylor's head snaps toward me so quickly I'm surprised she doesn't pull something.

For a second, she just stares.

Color floods her cheeks, spreading underneath the freckles scattered across her nose, and for some completely inappropriate reason, I find myself wondering how many there are.

My fingers actually twitch with the urge to trace them.

Count them.