Page 213 of Faking the Goal

Coach understood immediately and told him to take whatever time he needed. Zach chose to play so Elijah could stay where he was needed most—with his sister.

So Cody's centering the first line tonight, and I'll give him credit where it's due—he's been playing one hell of a game. He's winning faceoffs, creating chances, blocking shots... playing like he has something to prove. The guys have rallied around him, knowing we're missing the steady voice that's usually wearing the captain's C.

A whistle gives me a few seconds to straighten up inside the crease, and without thinking, my eyes drift toward the stands.

It doesn't take long to find her.

Taylor is exactly where I left her.

Caroline sits beside her while Taylor remains on her feet near the railing, camera hanging from her neck, one hand already gripping it as she watches the ice through the viewfinder, always prepared to catch the next big play. The two of them are talking about something between whistles, though I can't hear a word from this distance.

Even from here, she still looks tired.

The hangover probably isn't helping. For a while this morning, I wondered if letting her drink that much last night had been a mistake, especially knowing she had class today and still had to be here for the game tonight. But then I remember how happy she was at La Playa. How much she laughed. For a few hours, she wasn't worrying about her stalker. She was just having fun, and after everything she's been dealing with lately, maybe waking up with a pounding headache was worth it.

At least I managed to get a couple hours of sleep into her earlier. After class, I brought her back to my dorm and practically ordered her into my bed for a nap before we had to leave for the arena. She complained, of course, but she was out within minutes.

Clearly, it still wasn't enough.

Every now and then, I catch her rubbing at one eye before lifting the camera again, forcing herself to stay alert.

My chest tightens.

Just get through another ten minutes.

Another ten minutes, one final horn, and I'll get her home where she can finally get the sleep she needs.

A stick slaps against the ice.

The opposing winger cuts through the slot.

My attention snaps back to the play just as the puck rockets toward the blocker side.

Not tonight.

I push across the crease, square my shoulders, and get the blocker on it, sending the puck harmlessly into the corner as the crowd erupts around me.

By the time we've finished the postgame handshakes, media obligations, and everything else that comes with a win, Taylor can barely keep her eyes open. She insists she's fine, insists she can stay awake for the drive home, but the second I pull out of the arena parking lot, the silence inside the car stretches for all of two minutes before I glance over and find her curled against the passenger seat, fast asleep.

I don't bother waking her.

For the first time all week, she actually looks peaceful.

The soft glow of passing streetlights washes over her face as I drive through the quiet streets, her camera bag tucked at her feet, one hand still loosely wrapped around the strap as though she fell asleep before she could let it go. I turn the radio down until it's barely more than a whisper and keep the car a little slower than usual, careful over every speed bump and turn.

She needs this.

By the time I pull into the parking lot outside her apartment building, nearly thirty minutes have passed. I put the car in park and let the engine idle for a moment, studying her sleeping face. She doesn't stir.

I almost consider letting her sleep a little longer.

Instead, I reach over and gently brush a loose strand of ginger hair away from her cheek.

"Trouble," I murmur softly.

She only hums, her nose scrunching before she burrows farther into the seat.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.