Page 21 of Faking the Goal

I rake my fingers through my hair and pull out my phone before I work myself up enough to march back inside and continue an argument I already won.

I didn't drive tonight because I knew I'd be drinking, so I open the Uber app and put in my apartment address. The estimated wait pops onto the screen, and I groan.

"You've got to be kidding me."

It's after midnight on a Friday night—Saturday morning, technically—so getting a ride around here was never going to be instantaneous. Half the city is still out drinking, partying, or trying to get home from doing both, and apparently every available driver has somewhere better to be than rescuing my ass from a hockey party.

I check the estimate again before pulling up the walking route.

Ten minutes.

My eyes drop to my boots, then my legs.

"Can we do ten minutes?"

My feet don't answer, which I'm choosing to interpret as consent.

I've had plenty to drink tonight, but I'm nowhere near wasted. I'm steady on my feet, my head is clear, and that little confrontation upstairs burned through most of the pleasant buzz I had going anyway. If anything, I'm irritatingly fucking alert now.

Walking it is.

I shove my phone into my purse and start down the sidewalk, wrapping my arms loosely around myself as I put the noise of the Pond behind me.

Ten minutes.

Then I can get home, take off my shoes, crawl into bed, and forget Kentaro fucking Azuma exists.

At least until the next hockey game.

Which is tonight.

Because apparently twenty-four hours between games would be far too generous, and I get to see his insufferable face again in less than a day.

I groan, dragging a hand down my face.

"Fucking plague."

I'm about halfway home when the streets start getting quieter.

The Pond isn't far from my apartment, but this route cuts alongside one of the small lakes scattered around campus, bordered by palms, low shrubs, and patches of tall grass growing thick near the water. There are streetlights along the sidewalk, but they're spaced far enough apart that stretches of darkness sit between each pool of yellow light. Every now and then, a car passes on the road beside me, headlights sweeping over the pavement before disappearing around the bend and leaving everything quiet again.

Maybe a little too quiet.

I glance toward the road, then casually toward the dark stretch of sidewalk ahead.

Something feels... off.

Not anything I can point to. Just this strange prickling awareness creeping across the back of my neck, like I'm not as alone out here as I thought.

I keep walking.

It's probably the booze.

That's what I'm telling myself, anyway. Alcohol, exhaustion, and the residual rage from arguing with Kentaro have apparently joined forces to make my brain even more paranoid than usual.

Except I can't shake the feeling that someone is behind me.

My eyes flick toward the dark reflection in the lake, then toward the grass on my right. I don't turn around. Not yet. If there actually is some creep following me, the last thing I want is to make it obvious that I've noticed.