Page 291 of Faking the Goal

Kentaro was already borderline unbearable when he slipped into protective mode, but ever since we found that box the other night, he has somehow become even more overprotective—which I didn't think was physically possible. Then again, this is Kentaro Azuma we're talking about, so apparently there is always another level.

He hasn't left my side unless absolutely necessary.

The only exception was yesterday, when Caroline practically kidnapped me from his side and declared that I needed a girls' day, refusing to take no for an answer.

Honestly, I was grateful for it. She dragged me around town, forced me into stores I never would have entered on my own, and made me laugh until my ribs hurt. For a few hours, she managed to drown out the increasingly loud circus performing inside my head.

Kentaro was grateful too.

Well... grateful might be overselling it.

He understood why I needed to get out, and he thanked Caroline for taking care of me, but he also spent the entire morning sulking because she refused to let him come with us. Apparently, the words girls' day sounded less like a perfectly reasonable boundary and more like a personal attack against one emotionally constipated Japanese goalie who had recently decided I should never be farther than three feet away from him.

He even tried arguing that he could sit at a separate table and pretend not to know us, which might have been slightly more convincing if he hadn't been standing there with his arms crossed, glaring at Caroline like she had just traded him to a rival team.

Caroline told him he would survive a few hours without me.

Judging by his expression, she might as well have informed him that she was taking me overseas and would return me sometime after retirement.

He disappears into the locker room to change, and less than five minutes later, he comes back out in his practice gear, his jersey hanging loose over his pads and his skates already laced. His helmet is tucked under one arm, his gloves hanging from the other hand.

"You good here?" he asks, nodding toward the bleachers beside the players' bench.

I lift my laptop bag. "I have work."

"That wasn't my question."

A smile tugs at my mouth. "Yes, Ken-chan. I'm good."

His gaze lingers on me for another second, as if he's trying to determine whether I'm telling the truth, before he finally nods.

"Stay where I can see you."

There's no command in it. Just concern.

I soften despite myself. "I will."

He sets his helmet and gloves on the bench, then steps onto the ice without them, pushing off with one smooth stride. The sharp scrape of his blades cuts through the empty rink as he glides toward the far end, loosening his shoulders and rolling his neck before settling into his usual warm-up.

I sit in the first row of bleachers beside the bench, close enough that I can hear every slice of his skates against the ice.

He starts slowly, skating wide circles around the rink before shifting into sharper turns. Without the helmet, his dark hair falls over his forehead, and every few seconds, his eyes flick toward me.

The first time, I pretend not to notice.

The second time, I lift my hand and wave.

His mouth twitches.

By the fourth, I can't help laughing.

"I'm still here," I call out.

He glides backward near center ice, his gaze fixed on me. "I know."

"Then stop checking every ten seconds."

"I'm warming up."